#also use references for clothes!!!!!!!!! fabric is very hard

[lazylittledragon]

How do you shade/render your drawings?? It looks so nice!

thank you!!

i'll make a proper tutorial one day but right now there's not much to say since i'm always changing how i do things. mostly i use a hard circle brush for skin/clothes and one of my lineart brushes for hair. i don't do a lot of actual rendering, just one multiply layer on top of flat colour and then details on top of the lineart. the lighting is normally just a hard light layer coloured with an airbrush.

when i finish a drawing, i sharpen the png a few times to crisp up the edges which makes it look a lot more refined than it is.

tl:dr: i cheat, quite a lot.

[klemen-tine]

Glass Bones and Paper Skin

Platonic! Bruce x Model! GN! Reader

More Platonic Bruce x Reader than Batfam, but they are mentioned and will have a bigger role in the future.

Trigger Warnings: Hint at suicide, Body Issues, Eating problems (not a disorder), Child Neglect

Just a reminder for everyone, your bodies are perfect and beautiful! Don't let anyone else tell you otherwise.

Part 2

Part 3

Blinding lights and hundreds of eyes are enough to thwart people from the runway. It makes people stumble, trip, or even run from it. Their mind focuses on if they mess up, the world will see. Their managers, agencies, everyone will forever refer to it when they ask them to walk for them again. 

They focus on their walk, the way the clothing either hugs or drapes off their bodies, how the shoes don’t fit, the way their hair is styled, and how the makeup can burn. They try not to focus on how their stomachs ache, how the heels cut into the thin skin on their feet, and that everyone in this room that is dressed and prepped, are equally or more or less beautiful than them. 

Y/N L/N seemed to be the topic of conversation at all of these events. A newer runway model who has been eating it up. From their first runway debut to this one, they have always left people in awe and dropping to their knees for more. It is hard to believe that they are only 18. Y/N has been a photoshoot model since 15, but on their birthday when they turned 18, they finally agreed to their agency’s desire to make them take on the runway. 

It was the best choice for their career. Y/N’s manager was the daughter of their mother’s manager, back when she was alive and used to do modeling. Her manager threw her own daughter at Y/N, and stated that they were the best people to work with because they know Y/N. Whether Y/N was cursed or not –they have yet to figure that out– has nearly the same exact features as their mother and the same ‘air.’ One that demanded everyone to pay attention to them, and is a natural for posing and had a natural strut. 

They’ve been right, and Y/N doesn’t know if it is because of them that they all made it this far. They knew what looked best on Y/N and what wouldn’t work. They knew which designers would adore them and which designers wouldn’t fit. 

Those who know Y/N though understand that the ‘air’ was only on the runways and photoshoots. Y/N is actually a very demure person, while not a wallflower, they were someone who could blend in the crowd. 

Alfred once told them that every country should be grateful to not have Y/N working against them, because Y/N can just disappear. 

“Y/N, are you ready?” They smiled at their fellow models, slipping into the person of Y/N L/N, child of M/N L/N and Bruce Wayne, and nodding, “Of course. When am I not?” 

Cheryl whistled, a fellow model that has been Y/N’s mentor in some way, walking around Y/N and smiling, “Designers sure know how to dress you up. I think almost every runway walk has had your hips on display” Y/N chuckled at her, “It’s because of these hips dips. You can probably drink soup out of them.” 

“If it was ice cream I’d be down, but not soup.” Jon was another model who has been in the scene for a long time. He was a handsome man with a diamond face. 

“Models get ready.” A shuffling of feet and high heels clip clopping sounded in the backstage, and Y/N took their place in front of everyone. They will be the one opening the show today, an honor that the 18-year-old took gratefully. 

Opening a show was a big deal, setting the tone for the show in general and also the tempo. Y/N took a deep breath, and at the cue, their mind went blank as they began walking. Their eyes focused on the end camera, and the walk on beat to the music. Once at the end, they looked directly into the camera and struck a pose. Highlighting the slit hips and underboob design, showing off the almost sheer fabric that had the slightest hint of shimmer in them. A statement piece. 

Turning around they walked back to where they emerged from, making sure they kept their face in control for the last camera. However, a sight at the corner of their eye momentarily broke them out of their blank space. Five familiar people that should not be here. Sitting in the front row, wearing nice tuxedos, and almost making Y/N stumble. 

Almost. Controlling their features, Y/N returned their focus to the camera and disappeared in the entrance they emerged from. Smiling at all the 'congratulations’ ‘you looked great,’ ‘you look beautiful,’ they went back to their manager, Maya, and whispered, “I need you to confirm five people in the front row on the left side. They are four chairs down from the camera.”

Maya nodded, scurrying away and without a doubt checking it out. Y/N could feel the curiosity and dread build in their stomach. If they are who Y/N thinks they are, then the after party is going to be interesting. 

“What’s wrong?” Jon wrapped an arm around Y/N’s shoulder, bringing Y/N out their thoughts, “Nothing really. Just thought I saw some familiar faces.” Jon made a weird face, but dropped the issue when another model, Logan, strolled on over. 

“Did you see them?” 

“See who?” 

“The Wayne family! They are in the front row!” Y/N closed their eyes in misery and a headache began forming. They saw Maya running back, her face pale and a large frown on her face. Jon glanced at Y/N, taking in the annoyed expression and scrunched nose, “Hmm, no I didn’t. I was too focused on looking at the camera, Logan.” She rolled her eyes, “Oh, it was only a second.”

Jon and Y/N gave each other a dry look, remembering the last time Logan had said that and somehow the camera managed to snap a photo when she was oggling at someone. Y/N shook their head, “I momentarily saw them, but I didn’t think it was them. Do you think I can get the oldest son’s number?” 

‘You’re not his type.’  Y/N thought but didn’t say, shrugging and smiling in amusement, “Logan, what would your girlfriend say?” The model stuck her tongue, “She’d ask to join.” Before Logan could say anything else, Cheryl waltzed over, “Stop being inappropriate, there’s a kid present.” 

“Hey!” 

“Sorry, if you can’t drink yet you can’t have this conversation.” Y/N made a face, “That’s the stupidest sense of logic I have ever heard.” Everyone laughed at them, clapping Y/N’s shoulders and helping each other fix their wardrobes. Some stylists came over to fix their makeup and hair just in case. Everyone was getting ready for the last walkthrough, and honestly, Y/N was dreading it. 

As the front runner of it all, Y/N’s face will be seen by the now confirmed Wayne family and Y/N isn’t confident in themselves enough to not make a face. 

The show will be closing soon and then there is the afterparty that all models are expected to attend. It's a networking place, where other designers, brand ambassadors, and just people who are rich enough to get a ticket can talk to the models and try and recruit them. Its a place and time to mingle for those who have an open schedule and unfortunately, Y/N has an open fucking schedule. 

This was their last show in Paris, and then they have one destination and then it will be done. Runway season will be officially over and then it will be smaller gigs and back to the every now and then runway. 

“Models get ready!” Y/N took a deep breath and fixed their face, eyes forward and chin up. 

‘I’ll call Alfred when I get home.’ 

+++

‘I want to go home.’ Y/N nursed the drink in the flute, filled with sparkling cider instead of champagne. They stood off to the side, changed out of the clothes they wore on the runway, and instead in a deep-v top and leather pants. Still dressed to impress, but at the moment they just wanted to curl up and go away. Y/N’s hotel room has a bathtub in it and Y/N really wants to just sit down in hot water and relax. 

Y/N was constantly scanning the crowd, moving further against the wall whenever they saw black hair and blue eyes. 

Maya said one more hour, then it will be acceptable to leave. She was doing all  the talking and networking for Y/N, trusting that when it came to meet the designers Y/N will charm them enough to want to have them keep coming back. Sighing once more, Y/N took a longer sip and wished to be home. 

Something moved the hair near their ear, and Y/N almost threw their glass at whoever it was until they caught sight of blue eyes and black hair, staring at and analyzing them. 

“Tim…” 

“Hello, Y/N.” Y/N gave a practiced and polite smile, “Odd to see you here.” Tim shrugged, “Seeing that the designer is friends with Bruce, and told us of your show and that you will be leading the walk, of course we had to come.” Y/N nodded, “In Paris?” 

“Where else? You’re next one is in New York right?” Y/N gave a polite chuckle, “Since when did you pay attention to fashion week?” Tim took a sip of champagne, “Since my younger sibling decided to run off and become a model.” 

Y/N took a sip of the sparkling cider, not missing the way Tim was eyeing them with interest and curiosity. They smiled against the rim of the flute, “ ‘Run off’ huh. I don’t think those are the words I would use. I never hid it and I didn’t pack my bags in the middle of the night and sneak through a window.” Y/N set the empty flute down, still smiling politely at Tim who was still watching them, “I simply walked out the front door and no one stopped me.” 

“Y/N–” 

“Y/N! There you are!” A tall woman, hair dyed a shade-off from white gray and wearing the crispest red suit, strolled over. Y/N gave a larger smile, opening their arms and welcoming the hug, “Ms. Gabbana, you look lovely as always.” The woman laughed, “That’s the botox. Anyways, you looked so amazing opening the show!” 

Tim was quickly forgotten as Francesca Gabbana, an Italian high-end fashion designer and luxury brand owner, chatted away with Y/N. Her presence called forth other designers and models and soon enough, Y/N was entrapped in a small group talking about the next runway show next week. 

They talked about the dreaded flight to New York, and where they will be staying. It will be Francesca’s show next week, along with some other high end designers. Francesca seemed particularly excited for Y/N’s, and when Y/N first saw the design, they had to hold back the shivers.

“Right, Y/N you’re from Gotham aren’t you? Will you be visiting your family?” With the attention all on Y/N, they smiled tightly and shrugged, “We’ll see. They are always so busy so I think it's best if I don-” 

“I hope Y/N visits, it’s been a while since we last saw each other.” A large hand clapped Y/N’s shoulder, and from the facial expression everyone was making, Y/N knows who it was. Peeking up through their lashes, Y/N could see Bruce’s smile on his still handsome face. 

Cheryl was the first to recover, her eyes narrowing slightly, “How… how do you know each other?” Y/N glanced at Bruce, who right now is Brucie, and before he could say anything Bruce gasped, “Y/N, you haven’t said anything?” The young adult shrugged, “It never came up. Bruce Wayne is my father.”

The room erupted, and Y/N actually wanted to go die in a hole. What proceeded afterwards was the most intense questioning for the next two hours. 

++++

“Bruce, why are you here?” Y/N asked over dinner. He tossed the crouton around in his salad, waiting for his father’s response. They have never had a 1 on 1 meal together. It was alway family meals, and even then Y/N rarely showed up for those. There was no need too. They never noticed when Y/N was there or not. 

The Billionaire playboy shrugged, “Is it wrong to see my child open a highly sought after show?” Y/N chuckled, “No, but you have never shown any interest in this before.” Y/N never hid his modeling gigs. Often using the family weight room to keep in shape and also turned one of the unused offices into a strut practice room when Y/N lived in the manor. Hours and the amount of money spent to ensure their skin was perfect and their hair was nice, and that they looked beautiful. 

Y/N never hid their modeling job, even as a teen, and yet the only one who seemed to notice was Alfred. 

“You never said anything.” 

“I didn’t think I had too.” Y/N can recall trying to show Bruce, Dick, Jason, anyone that would bother to look, a photo of them making it onto Vogue. Not the cover, not yet, but as a newer model within the prestigious magazine. They made it at 16. 16, and only modeling for a year! Francessca had them in a piece that was first page worthy, and it fit Y/N like it was meant for them. 

Alfred was the only person to look at the magazine Y/N held open with their trembling hands, and ruffle their hair and congratulate them. 

“You didn’t even tell Alfred where you are living.” No, because Y/N doesn’t want Alfred showing up unexpectedly and seeing the almost empty fridge. The thought of the older man’s disappointed look and inquisitive questions would have Y/N breaking down crying. 

“Hmmm, I’m always moving around so I didn’t want him showing up when I am not there.” Bruce nodded, taking a bite of his lobster, and watching Y/N take a small bite of the salad. Y/N swallowed with great difficulty, “Bruce-” 

“Since when does a child call their parents by their first name?” Y/N sucked their teeth, “The only one who calls you ‘father’ is Damian.” 

“You used to.” Y/N shrugged, “You never seemed comfortable with me calling you that.” Bruce rarely answered when Y/N called him ‘dad’ or ‘father,’ and yet he alway responded when someone else called for him.  Y/N would watch from afar as Bruce came running to them in need, but when Y/N needed help they had to figure it out on their own. 

At some point Y/N stopped calling for Bruce entirely, running and calling only to Alfred.

Y/N is not mad about it. They never were. Dull E/C eyes accepted it and pushed forward, watching the explosive fights, the angry words, and the silent apologies. Alfred’s words affirming that they all loved each other, despite everything saying otherwise. Y/N watched, and continued to watch as they focused on themselves when Y/N began making a name for themself. 

They’re not mad. Y/N never was. Hurt? Maybe, but not mad. That is just their hand in life. Besides, it made the modeling career easier. No need to worry about missing any events, Y/N wouldn’t be invited even if they had lived there. Holidays weren’t huge, nor were birthdays. The only one Y/N sent a card to was Alfred. 

It made traveling easier. There was no such thing as homesickness. It made taking more gigs easier, more destructive behavior easier to handle. 

“Y/N,” Bruce called to him and Y/N paused while eating. Raising an eyebrow in question as Bruce set down his own eating utensils. Ocean blue met E/C, and Y/N tried to place the emotion in those blue eyes. 

“For what it is worth, I… I am sorry about the neglect you have faced within our home.” Y/N’s mind stopped functioning and they stared at Bruce in shock. The man either ignoring him or not realizing that Y/N was staring at him continued. 

“You… you didn’t deserve that, especially when you were grieving and that fact that I could not see that shows my fail–” 

“Wait wait wait!” Y/N held their hands up, cutting off Bruce, “What are you talking about?” Bruce stared at Y/N with questions in his eyes, and blinked in shock when he saw the genuine confusion in his child’s eyes. Y/N looked floored, “Bruce… I-I… what?”

Bruce knows he’s not a good parent. He is intimately aware of his failings and shortcomings, and how some of them haunt him. They claw into his skin, his mind, and chest as a reminder of all the times he has failed his children. He and Dick barely started talking, Jason and him are slowly mending that bridge, and Tim and Damian seem to hate each other and Bruce doesn’t know what to do about that. It seems the only children he hasn’t officially fucked over are those that aren’t even his. 

Then there’s Y/N. A child of his genetic makeup, just like Damian, only Y/N’s mother was a model Bruce had treated as a hookup whenever she was on the east coast. Y/N was 13 when they came into Bruce’s care, older than Damian and a few years younger than Tim. Their mother was caught in a drug-use scandal, one that cost her her career and then her life. Her choice left behind a traumatized child, walking in on the body as she decomposed in their bathroom. They had been forced to pack up their bags and move across the country to live with a parent that they only heard about once or twice. 

Bruce somewhat knew of Y/N. He knew that Y/N’s mother had been pregnant, but when he asked if she wanted child support, the woman huffed and said ‘no thank you.’ Her income was enough, as a high in demand supermodel, and she didn’t need Bruce’s ‘pity’ money. 

So, he never sought after her and she never phoned him. 

Until CPS called and told him of the news and the now homeless 13-year-old child he was now in charge of. 

Y/N and him never really connected, and Bruce wonders if some of that is his own fault. He was always too busy with Batman, then his drama with Dick, and Jason’s whole dying thing, the persona of Brucie Wayne, then there was Tim, then Jason coming back from the dead thing, then Barbara’s whole Joker incident, then Damian…. 

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t too busy, he just never made time for Y/N. Which, the other never seemed to complain about. If they did complain to Alfred, the butler never said anything, and neither did their brothers. Y/N was just a ghost living in the manor that showed up for meals because it was expected, and then… left. 

Now he sits here, across from his child who doesn’t seem to understand the wrong done to them by not only Bruce, but the rest of the family. 

“Where did this come from?” Bruce doesn’t have the heart to tell them that it was because of Alfred that Bruce and the family finally realized what was wrong. The tour of Y/N’s old room, still kept clean due to Alfred’s insistence, but instead of clothes on the ground and signs of life within the room, it had photos of Y/N's past modeling gigs. Hundreds of photos, some framed, some not, as they covered the walls. Magazines that had Y/N on the front cover, magazine pages that had Y/N taking up the entire page.

The tour of the room-turned-practice room. Full of mirrors, and a 4 inch wide ply board used to practice walking. The shoes that were hidden in the closet, some too big and some too small. Blood staining the heel area of most of them as the image of Y/N practicing until and through the blisters filled all their heads. 

The meal regime, still written hastily down on the post it notes, and the exercise routine that didn’t match the calorie intake. The broken mirrors in Y/N’s closets and the clothes that now looked like they would be too big on the present-day Y/N that is sitting in front of Bruce.

The written blogs, printed and folded in one of their drawers, relating them back to their mother. Accusing them of the same thing they accused M/N. Highlighting Y/N’s faults, Y/N’s mistakes, Y/N’s features, and Y/N’s heritage. 

‘Child of drug-abuser model M/N L/N, Y/N L/N using the same drug?’ A 15-year-old Y/N posed in a way to show their figure was the picture that was used. 

‘Child of famous model M/N L/N able to hold up to the heat?’ Another photo of a 16-year-old Y/N looking exhausted as they walked out of a building. Eyes red and bags under their eyes. 

‘Beauty genes skipped a generation.’ Y/N is 17 in that photo. 

‘Y/N M/N will never be as beautiful as M/N L/N without extensive work.’  Y/N is 15 again in this photo. They had kept every critique, every mean and poorly written article about them, and kept them. Some of them were tweets, printed instagram photos, and magazines. 

Bruce could see the drastic changes in Y/N throughout the photos. The strict lifestyle changes affected their appearance and made them look even more like M/N. The Y/N in front of him, still beautiful, but Bruce knows the thoughts behind the perfect skin and perfect hair. 

It would seem that one of the things Y/N inherited from Bruce would be the internalizing of every little bad thing to happen, and deny that it has affected them while they wore the scar of it on their sleeves. 

“Bruce, you didn’t neglect me. I had food, clothes, a manor… where did you get all of that from?” 

“Emotional neglect is still neglect.” Y/N still looked confused, setting their fork down and controlling their expression as they processed that. Okay, so yeah maybe Bruce wasn’t an attentive father, but the man never hit Y/N. He never said anything about Y/N that Y/N would have to go to therapy for. Besides, Bruce’s lack of attention paved the way for Y/N to do this! 

Y/N’s lips formed a serene smile, “Bruce, I’m not mad that you didn’t pay attention to me. You were busy with your company, you are legally a dad of five kids, not everyone is going to get the same attention.” They took a sip of the water, hoping the conversation would end there. 

“It wasn’t that I was busy, I just never made time Y/N… and for that I am sorry.” Y/N hates this. Absolutely hates this. All of their excuses for Bruce are being shot down by Bruce himself and it was leaving Y/N feeling a little raw. Wounds they didn’t even know about now being rubbed with salt. 

Y/N stuck their tongue in their cheek and looked around, before smiling once more, “Bruce, I am literally giving you a way out for your guilt, which I still don’t understand why you’re feeling guilty, so why aren’t you taking it? 

“What are you hoping to do?” Bruce stared into E/C eyes and he could see the irritation in them. He set his fork and knife down, and leaned forward, “Is it wrong to try and mend broken bridges?” 

“The bridge was never broken in the first place.” 

“You’re right, and that’s because there was never a bridge in the first place.” Y/N cocked their head to the side, watching with an intense expression. Those E/C eyes flickering around, taking in the restaurant and narrowing their eyes, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, but did you rent out the entire restaurant?” 

“I did. So we can talk freely.” 

“The other ‘customers’ are Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian.” Bruce nodded, “Family dinner.” Y/N’s smile held no amusement, “You know, if you were anybody else I would be thinking this is a way for you to slide back in my life in hopes you could get some of my paycheck. But what is a model’s paycheck to Bruce Wayne’s?” Bruce chuckled, “You are making quite a bit. I’m happy you're conscious of your position now.” 

Y/N sipped the water, “How do you know how much I’m making?” Bruce only smiled and continued eating. He watched his child contemplate asking the question again, but then decided to drop it. 

‘Smart.’ Y/N continued to watch him, no longer touching the food and seeming unwilling to even look at the dessert menu. 

“You’ll visit when you’re back in the states, right?” It didn’t feel like a question. In fact, it felt more like a demand poised as a question to keep intentions hidden. Y/N gulped, “I’ll try.” 

“You should, Alfred misses you. Besides, Manhattan, New York isn’t too far from Gotham.” It was such an innocent sentence. One spoken with a smile on his lips and kind sky blue eyes. An innocent sentence, except Y/N has never once told them where they live. 

“A beautiful place, I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave. With windows like those and that giant skylight, it is truly a wonderful place befitting a top model such as yourself.” Y/N’s mouth went dry, and they could feel the sweat on the back of their neck as they continued to stare at Bruce. Their instincts implore them to go along with this. 

Urging them to carry on the conversation as they felt the gazes of four others on their back. They gave a wobbly smile, “Ye-yes. I really love it, I am super lucky that I managed to have enough saved up, and that I make enough to own a beautiful home such as that.” Bruce nodded, “As an apology for all the missed birthdays and Christmases, I decided to help out a bit.”

“...Excuse me?” Bruce ignored them, and instead looked at their plate that was still untouched from when Y/N had put down the utensils. He took a bite, “Do you not like your food? I can get something else made for you.” 

“N-no, I’m-I’m just full.” Bruce’s eyes narrowed before making a show of shrugging it off, “If you insist. Do know Alfred will want to feed you when you visit.” Y/N’s smile was becoming hard to maintain, “It was a pleasure to have dinner with you, Bruce, but I have to go. Long flight tomorrow and I need to be ready for next week.” Y/N fished out their credit card, but Bruce stuck his hand out, “Don’t worry about it, dinner has been paid for.” 

Y/N didn’t fight, only nodding and smiling pleasantly, “I suppose I will see you next week?” Bruce stood up, and brought Y/N into a tense hug. Feeling the bone and sinewy muscles in his rough hands. Y/N’s top is open back, exposing the shoulder blades and some of Y/N’s spine. Each one a small knob against skin, looking like the Rocky Mountains. 

“Safe flight, Y/N. See you at the shows next week.” Y/N gave a tight smile and quickly left. The four other pairs of eyes never left their back, and when finally in the safety of the streets, Y/N pulled out their phone and checked their Mortgage app. 

‘Successfully Paid!’ In bright green letters, bolded as if it were a game. 

It’s been paid off. Y/N now owed nothing on that house, and while that might have been freeing, it meant someone could now have access to their mortgage account. An alert sounded on their phone, and when Y/N saw that it was their bank account, notifying them of a deposit Y/N felt the breath leave their lungs. 

A large sum, one that had Y/N blinking at the amount of 0’s, was just deposited to their checking account. Right under their bill for walking on that runway. 

‘Shopping money, for when you visit.’ - Dick 

They have access to their bank account. Y/N’s family, because while Bruce was a solitary kind of guy he never was one to withhold information from his former Robins, now had access to their account. They could see what they were spending money on. 

They know where Y/N lives. From the sounds of it, Bruce was even in the penthouse. Y/N covered their mouth and tried to stifle a sob, the feeling of an invasion of their privacy weighing heavy in their chest. 

++++

Y/N stared at the article of clothing with anxiety. When Francesca had first shown them the clothing, it had only caused slight discomfort. Now, now that Y/N knows that their family is here, and watching, the clothing had felt like it was a metal ball. Francesca stood next to them, admiring Y/N’s hair and makeup, and how it all looked with clothing item. 

“I knew this would look great on you. As a Gothamite, this must feel great right? To be wearing the symbol of your City’s greatest vigilante.” Y/N swallowed down the bile, “He’s typically seen as the boogeyman, but yes. I suppose it does feel odd wearing the symbol.” 

The piece of clothing was quite scandalous, a bat symbol made out of gold rest across their chest, attached to a black silk fabric and lace. It hugged their body, bringing out the hip dips and long legs, as well as exposing their toned stomach. 

“Why didn’t you say anything about you being Bruce Wayne’s kid?” Francesca asked, and Y/N could only shrug, “Just… it just never came up.” Y/N loves that Francesca drops that. There are tons of models who have family issues. Y/N’s are minor. 

Not worthy of anything. 

“Y/N, for what it is worth, I do think you are a one in a century model. No one has taken to the runway quite like you have. I think if you had started the runway earlier you would already be a supermodel.” Y/N smiled at Francesca’s kind words, and they wondered just how they got so lucky to have befriended her. 

“Thank you.” 

“Models get ready!” Y/N took to the back of the line, being offered to close the show just after they had opened one. Another prestigious offer that Y/N gratefully took. Sighing heavily, they watched as the line grew shorter and the sound of cameras flashing and grew louder. 

Taking a deep breath, they steeled their breathing and controlled their expressions. Blocking out the world in the way they do best, strutting. The intensity of the flashes increased, and Y/N made a show of keeping their face neutral. 

Just how Batman does. 

They made a point to not look at the people in the front row. When they made it back behind the entry way, there was no time to catch their breath. They were ushered back into line for the final walk out, and Y/N wonders if they can all see how pale Y/N is. Can they see the sweat on their brow or the fact that their E/C eyes are terrified? 

“You did great Y/N!” 

“Looking beautiful Y/N.” 

“C’mon Y/N, after this its a party!” 

No, no they can’t see it because they are all focused on what Y/N wants them to be focused on. Y/N has spent countless hours into ensuring they loook beautiful without makeup, and ethereal in it, no one will care about their inner thoughts and turmoils. 

Y/N strutted to the music one last time, focusing on the flashing light and hoping that the photos they captured showed exactly what Y/N wants them to see. Once they were in the back, the models stripping and changing into comfortable clothes and all of them getting ready for the afterparty, Y/N stayed seated. The pads of their fingers running against the cold metal that was in the shape of a bat across their chest as their makeup artist and hairstylist undid all of their work. 

Francesca smiled, “You were great Y/N, I knew you would be the right person to pull this off.” 

“Thank you, what inspired this piece if you don’t mind me asking.” Francesca smiled, “Oh, I got a call actually. It was just a call to run the idea by me, but I loved it so much that I accepted it.” Y/N furrowed their brow, “A call?” They began to strip out of the clothing, but Francesca’s startled look made them pause. 

“...What?” 

“You’re not going to keep it on?” Y/N gave a confused look, “We don’t keep clothes, Francesca.” The stylist smiled, “Well, no. But Y/N, that was a commission for you.” Y/N stared at Francesca with a new found fear, and their mouth going dry as they processed it all. 

“Who… who did you say the call was from?” Francesca beamed, “Your father, who by the way I am offended you didn’t say anything about, Bruce Wayne.” Large hands clapped their shoulder, and Y/N would have shouted if it weren’t for the familiar smell of cologne. 

Turning around, they met Bruce’s blue eyes, and the blue eyes of their siblings. All of them dressed to the nines and eyeing the clothes. 

“Truly a wonderful piece, Ms. Gabbana. I could not thank you enough.” 

“Of course! Thank you for the idea!” Y/N felt their breath quicked when Dick’s hands gripped their wrist, and gently tugged them in his direction, “C’mon Y/N, you’ll be late to dinner. Alfred is making your favorite.” 

“At least let them change, Dick.” 

“Todd is right, a drive in that would be difficult. Not to mention that  it is snowing outside.” 

“Y/N, we have some clothes for you. They should be more comfortable then the clothes you came in.” Y/N couldn’t even say anything as they were dragged away, Bruce keeping Francesca busy while their brothers pushed them into a changing room. Dick smiling gently as he passed the bag of Y/N’s clothes, taken from their penthouse, into Y/N’s trembling arms. 

“Bruce paid for that outfit, so try not to ruin it, okay? We’ll be waiting out here for you.” Dick booped their nose, and left Y/N alone in the changing room taht only had a curtain for a door. With trembling hands, they searched the bag for their phone. They have to call someone. Cheryl will help them. So would Jon. Maybe even Maya! Y/N just needs to call– 

“Y/N, we have your phone out here, so don’t panic.” Y/N bit their lip to stop themself from sobbing. One thing. They just want one thing to go right today. 

A knock sounded on the wood that was hoolding the curtain, “Y/N, do you need help?” 

“N-no! No, I’m just try-trying to be gentle with the piece.” Bruce hummed, “Well, try and hurry. Alfred is excited to see you and is expecting us for dinner in three hours.” Y/N gulped, carefully stripping and putting on the sweats and hoodie. Clothes that still smell like their laundry detergent and shoes Y/N knows were in their closet. 

‘Dear God.’ They whimpered as they slipped on the comfortable pair of shoes, and bagged the shoes from teh show, and carefully picked up the article of clothing. The gold bat symbol shining mockingly at them. 

The curtain pulled open, and like a horror photo, the light from behind them casted and eerie shadow. Bruce’s face hidden in teh darkness as he reached his hand out for Y/N, knowing full well his child cannot run. 

“C’mon Y/N, time to go home.”

______________________________________________________________

A Part 2 will definitely happen! Kinda has to, to be honest.

[kirbyskisses]

idk soft dom very tired jason todd has been holding my mind hostage 🫠 coming home after a long night and walking in on u devastated because u've been soaked for an hour (rip) but u can't make urself come so ur near / in tears when he finds u. i feel like u kinda hide urself from him bc he must be exhausted but also ask him to please help u maybe,,

hiiiii anon!!! sorry this took sooo long, university is kicking my ass. anyway; fem!reader, latino!jason w/ spanglish nicknames, vv soft, praise kink. i hope you like it!!! tagging: @mxonigirimiya @reveluving and @sems-diarie. also i guess this is a celebration because I JUST HIT 2K

-

“fucking hate this city.” jason mumbles, lying to himself. if he truly hated gotham he wouldn’t be working so hard to defend it. he just hates how much the endeavor takes out of him.

still, he loves many a thing about gotham - principle of all, he loves that gotham has you. his one spot of hope, his angel of light who’s always smiling away in his apartment for him like a shining beacon in otherwise dark terrain.

but this time you’re not greeting his tired body at the door. you’re not shining that heart-melting smile in the kitchen. you’re not even ignoring his presence in the living room because your head is buried a book or focused on a show or because you’re agitatedly writing a document for work.

“baby?” he calls out, voice still distorted by the red hood helmet. he shrugs and takes it off. he gives an exhausted smile up spotting the clothes that you left out for him. it comforts him that they still carry a semblance of your comforting scent - it only makes him long to cuddle you in bed.

oh! the bedroom! he almost laughs at the idiocy of not thinking to check there, slipping on the pajamas expecting to find you having fallen asleep or gotten distracted from his earlier shout by scrolling through your phone.

he doesn’t not expect to see his pretty angel bouncing frustratedly on a fake silicon cock, wearing one of his oversized shirts, fingers desperately rubbing at your chubby clit. even in the dark with tired eyes, he thinks he can make out wet spots on the covers.

he doesn’t announce his presence with anything more than a cough and a click of the lamp; immediately your glossy eyes turn to him in embarrassment.

“you look like you need some help there, sweet thing.” he gives a tired smirk when your eyes meet.

“j-jay!” your voice cracks. “i didn’t - i thought-”

“were you waiting up for me?” he yawns a bit and walks his heavy form closer to you, arms caging you in as he leans over, green eyes admiring your trembling lips.

“had a bitch of a patrol - but clearly i shouldn’t have kept my baby waiting. let me make it up to you.”

“ ‘s okay. jay you’re tired a-and it’s late.” you sigh out, still stuttering from teetering on the edge of a high, foggy brain trying to be reasonable despite your boyfriend kissing down your neck.

“ay, cariño… how long?”

“how long?” you repeat, dumbfounded and he lets out a low chuckle.

“how long have you been trying to make her cum while i was gone?”

you feel yourself gush a little bit more at how jason refers to your core like its own person. you hesitate as he sucks a mark into your neck, threads of spit connecting his lips to the bruised skin.

“tell me, baby. don’t be embarrassed.”

“a-… an hour…”

“an hour? fuck, pobrecita… ‘m gonna take care of her now, aight? spread your legs for me.”

you do as he says, as always, gaining a smirk and a kiss to your clit from your act of obedience.

“she’s crying baby.” he pulls the soaked fake toy out and tosses it. he gives a teasing, unimpressed laugh, finger rolling over the soaking bud and making you whimper.

“heh. no wonder you couldn’t get off princess with that; i’ve gotten you too used to something bigger.” you hear the fabric of his boxers drop. “usually i’d use my tongue but you’ve gone and prepped yourself for me so well, mamita.”

“please…” you sniffle, still feeling bad for bothering him. “pl-please help, i don’t - jay, i don’t wanna wait anymore.”

he shushes you - his large, battle-scarred hand gentle stroking your cheek and the other guides his fat tip to kiss your warmth.

“sshh. i gotcha, sweetheart.”

“ ‘m sorry…” you whisper out still feeling like a burden for your neediness - lengthening his already difficult night.

“no. no te preo. don’t you be sorry. you did so good, mamita, y’know that? i should be thanking you for letting me have this sweet treat.” jason makes a loud groan as he inches in.

“fuckkk… i’ll take care of ya, sweet thing. you just relax and let me do everything fr’m here.”

jason loves to feel needed. if you need him, he’s there - no matter the cost or the exhaustion.

and if he gets to sink his fat cock into a soaking wet, tight little pussy while doing so - that’s just the cherry on top.

[beomiracles]

hellos would you like to write a fic abt stylist reader x member (beomgyu??) the white deja vu outfits got my mind running LIKE HOW DO THE STYLISTS JUST….put the outfits on them wo dying fhfbdbhd

「 just once more 」

DREAM RECALL sleeping with him as his stylist? very wrong. but it was just once and you were ready to forget about it. though, could just once more be so bad?

pairings idol!beomgyu x stylist!afab!reader warnings unprotected sex, creampie, fingering.

wc 1.3k

#serene adds ✎... I know these were probably not the outfits you were referring to but I literally HAD to use them @.@ this is also not proofread and I'm very tired so mind the whole thing eheh !! I've also noticed you in my notifications a lot and I was so happy when I saw that you made a request eek :3

"I don't know how to tie this", Beomgyu calls out from his dressing room. You throw an impatient glance toward the watch on your wrist. "Just pull it on and I can come in and help you", you groan as you lean against the door.

He had been in there for what felt like hours, and while the other stylists had already began touching up on both makeup and hair, you had gotten nowhere.

Soft rustling sounds can be heard on the other side of the door before Beomgyu gives you the go-ahead to enter. Swinging the door open you run a mildly stressed hand through your hair.

"Listen we've only got fifteen minutes left and I have yet to touch up on your makeup and─" "Why aren't you dressed?".

Your eyes widen as they travel across Beomgyu's very much naked torso. His hands grasp the white fabric of his shirt and corset as he shifts on the spot.

"Told ya, I don't know how to tie it", he shrugs as he throws the shirt at you. Barely managing to catch the garment you shoot him a glare. "You could've at least had the decency to cover yourself", you mutter as you fiddle with the strings on the corset, undoing them.

"Why?" Beomgyu steps forward as a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. "Nothing you haven't seen before, love", he says as he tilts his head down, bringing your faces closer.

Shoving the piece of clothing back into his hands, you push him back. "And I am trying my best to forget about it", you say as you instruct for him to pull the shirt on.

"Careful, you might hurt my feelings", he grins as he pulls the shirt over his head. "What feelings?" you scoff as you adjust the corset around his pretty waist.

Beomgyu pouts as he grabs ahold of your wrist. Pressing your palm flat against his chest he tilts his head to the side, "these?".

Rolling your eyes you withdraw your hand as you begin tying the corset. "Feelings or not, you know you liked it", he then says, grunting as you pull the corset tighter.

"Maybe", you mutter as you busy yourself with the strings, refusing to look him in the eyes. "But it can never happen again", you state.

Three weeks and four days ago you had made a mistake, a slip up, if you will. You had been in a vulnerable state of mind, you weren't thinking straight, and Beomgyu who was never thinking straight, well it wasn't very hard to guess where it had led you.

"Don't be such a bore", he whines as his hands caress your hip and waist. You glare up at him, "keep your hands where I can see them", you retort, "and I'm not a bore", you then add.

Beomgyu smirk's "then c'mon", his fingers trace your collarbone and lower neck. "No", you promptly say as you take a step back. Beomgyu frowns as his hand falls to his side.

"Give me one good reason", he then says, intent on getting his way. "Just one?" you scoff and Beomgyu nods. There was a whole list of wrongs, longer than you'd like to admit.

"Because it is unprofessional", you fold your arms across your chest, "and I could lose my job". Beomgyu takes a step closer and you falter backward once more, thighs hitting the makeup desk behind you.

"You really think I'd make you lose your job?" he questions as his thumb drags along your lower lip. Sighing you look up at him, "it's not that simple Beomgyu, maybe for you, but for me...", you shake your head.

"It happened once, and it never should have", you state as you move his hand from your face. "It can never happen again", you say as your eyes seek Beomgyu's dark ones.

"Never?" he whispers, leaning dangerously close. You nod, "never". A pout forms on his oh─so kissable lips as his brows furrows together. "Not even once more?" his lips ghost over your own and you let out a short breath.

Unable to form a reply your eyes travel from his own eyes to his lips before returning back up again. "Just once more", he whispers, almost pleadingly. "Need to taste you once more", he murmurs as he carefully seals your lips in a soft kiss.

You first instinct is to pull away. Stop him, move, do something. But it's almost impossible. You find yourself wanting─ craving, more. Just once, one more time. It couldn't hurt.

Feverish hands push you up on his makeup desk as Beomgyu makes room for himself between your thighs. Fuck, you were supposed to be touching up his makeup right now, if anything you were ruining it further.

Beomgyu breaks off the kiss hastily as he looks at you with lustful eyes, "how much time did you say we had again?" he pants and you throw a glance at your watch.

"Eleven minutes and─"

"Enough time for now", he mutters as he reconnects your lips, hands finding their way under your loose skirt and quickly pushing your panties aside. You get no chance to question what he had meant with 'for now' before Beomgyu pushes two fingers deep inside your cunt.

"F-fuck", you cry out as your hand on the nape of his neck tightens. One of his hands come up to seal your mouth shut as he flashes you a smirk, "thought you wanted to keep your job?".

You shoot him a glare but Beomgyu's smirk only widens as he thrusts his fingers through your cunt. When he pulls them out he's quick to shove them in his mouth, a groan leaving his lips as he tastes you. "You've gotten even sweeter", he comments as his other hand unzips his pants.

Barely even registering his words, you grip onto his shoulders tightly as the head of Beomgyu's cock is pushed inside of you. Biting down on your bottom lip, attempting to suppress the sinful noises threatening to spill from you .

Beomgyu's head buries in the crook of your neck as he groans into your sweaty skin. Teeth grazing along your collarbone as he presses open mouthed kisses along it, leaving a trail of saliva in his wake.

Glancing up to be met by his own reflection in the mirror behind you his smirk grows. "Fuck you should see yourself like this", he murmurs as his lips drag along your shoulder toward your neck.

His eyes wander toward the discarded makeup supplies on the vanity. He picks a brush up, shoving it in your hand, eyes glinting in an ever so 'Beomgyu way' when you give him a confused look.

"Why don't you get started on my makeup? save some time", he says and if he wasn't fucking you so good right now you would've plucked his eyes out by this point.

Yet you reach for a small palette with shaking hands as you carefully dust the brush onto it. Your strokes are uneven and shaky as you apply blush to his already flushed cheeks.

Beomgyu doesn't make it any easier on you, fingers easily finding your clit as he rubs and pinches it between them, making you squirm.

One hand on his shoulder as the other one messily reapplies eyeshadow, Beomgyu's sudden question catches you off guard. "Can I come inside?" he breathes out and you almost finish at the thought.

Biting your bottom lip you nod, "it's only once", you whisper and he groans as his lips finds your once more. "Only once", he breathes out as his hand rests on the base of your neck.

The warm sensation of Beomgyu finishing deep inside your throbbing cunt has you clenching around him as your cries of pleasure are swallowed by his hungry lips.

As he pulls out you watch how the essence of the two of you mix together in one, slowly seeping down your thighs and onto the otherwise clean vanity.

Glancing up at him you sigh, "this can never happen again". Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, "so same time next Tuesday?".

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[columboscreens]

columbo is so gender to me but i dont think i could ever look like him</3

i think it's totally possible for anyone to embody his essence. you can even manage to rock something directly inspired by columbo without looking like you're cosplaying.

hair

if you have columbo's hair type, it's actually pretty easy to emulate his styles. i even know people who show pictures of columbo to hair stylists to get his look. my partner's hair in its natural state is very similar to columbo's--dark, wavy, tending to grow in spite of gravity rather than with it. whenever he gets his hair cut, he shows the stylist photos of late 60s/pilot episode peter falk, whose look is actually pretty on-trend for the current era. it works out pretty well.

your swag may have aged well pilot columbo but you can't beat floof

failing that, getting any haircut that is natural, low-maintenance, and not too attention-grabbing captures the visual language all the same. for reference, natasha lyonne in poker face has her hair in natural-looking, messy waves that to me just exude columbo.

clothing

how you present yourself to the world is up to you, but if you want to invoke columbo, there's a lot more you can do than buy a tan raincoat.

in an era of sharply-cut, wide-lapelled constructions, fat tie tuesdays, and gucci loafers, columbo stands out as classic comfort personified.

his collar, tie, and lapels are slim, proportional, and unassuming; they'd look good in almost any era. his pants fit closely to his leg but not too wide or slim, and sit at or near the natural waist. though his suits, shirts, ties, shoes, socks, and even coats rotate, there is a consistent color palette keeping him "on model". he embraces earth tones: creams, forest greens, light browns, dark browns, stony grays, rusts, and roses. his clothing seems like an afterthought, but it's an extension of his personality--rumpled and unassuming at first, yet sharp and deliberate upon further inspection.

amid the 1970s explosion of synthetic popularity, it says something that every stitch of textile on columbo's person is natural (aside from the raincoat, which is probably nylon or poly--he wears it without a lining and uses it as essentially an oversized windbreaker). his boots are leather with crepe latex soles; his tie is silk. his shirt is cotton, a bit boxy but comfortable and properly fitted. because the construction of his suits is roomy and unstructured, and because they're made of linen, they wrinkle easily.

this is easily confused for appearing slovenly. actually, all things considered, his clothes fit him pretty damn well, it's just hard to avoid wrinkling natural fibers like linen and cotton, especially in hot weather. he's running around los angeles sweating up a storm, the man needs loose, breathable fabric.

point is, columbo dresses very thoughtfully. since these clothes are workwear for him and he works a hell of a lot, it's imperative that he factors in the weather, his comfort, and proper fit when picking clothes. he wants to like and be comfortable in them while looking unassuming. so even though he sometimes ends up looking like an unmade bed, his choices are deliberate.

you could invoke these principles in your own appearance by picking earthy colors/jewel tones and comfortable, natural fabrics that you enjoy wearing, which has the added benefit of being better for you and the environment. consider also taking a few garments in to be altered. it's usually not that expensive, supports your local needlefolk, and makes even cheap clothes fit great.

as a last little aside, i think having a "signature" clothing item akin to columbo's raincoat would be a nice touch. a jacket, a pair of shoes, even a watch or necklace. something you always wear. if you really do want a raincoat like his, just make sure you're not buying a trench coat, because, repeat after me: columbo does not wear a trench coat.

[divorcedwife]

i just found your chess art and im sosososo obsessed. the characters are so cool and really embody the fighting styles of the pieces. i wish i could watch them in like a magical girl tv show

whats your inspiration/reference for your costume design? especially the more historic ones?

love your work <3

thank you, thank you so much!!

i really like fashion and history, so when im not drawing i do spend a lot of time looking at historical clothes and designers i like. i find it hard to think of what time periods/designers inspire me the most in general, but i can elaborate on my inspiration for the chess pieces!

for the queen, i was inspired by charles james, and this coat in particular. i thought the queen should wear something rigid, tailored, very structured and dramatic, and 1950s designers are always a good place to look for that. i was also inspired by this house of worth dress for the sleeves

for the knight, i was inspired by this specific dior look. i wanted to keep this one simple and clean, no frills, no sheer fabric, and let the details of the armor pieces and thigh slit shine

for the pawn, i wanted something youthful and fun, so i was thinking 1960s, mary quant in particular. a babydoll silhouette, printed tights, flat shoes, short hair :-) but with a square neckline and dramatic sleeves to look a little like the king and queen

the bishop was probably the most historically inspired - the silhouette is classic 1780s, the sleeves are from the chemise à la reine style of the 1790s. i was also thinking gothic lolita when i was drawing her. it does make sense when i think about it : using christian symbols for fashion is a classic goth move, so it's a good place to look for a bishop design. since the bishops are closest to the royals, i thought she needed to have a lot going on with her design, but more fun than the queen

the rook and king, this is where i ran out of ideas entirely lol. i will confess : the others, i drew them because i had a very clear vision of where i wanted to go, i could picture them in my head and it was just a matter of drawing and refining them. and these last two, i drew because i had designs for 4/6, so it felt strange to stop there

my only idea for the rook was to have subtle rectangles on her dress, like... bricks... cause she's a tower. this is the best thing i could think of, so things were really dire. luckily i did have the idea of giving her a gun, which is always a good way to make a design cooler

ty again for your kind words and for asking! i always love to talk about fashion :-) <3333

[resin-popia]

DAY 1 Nendoroid Ghoul Costume

Working this small you have to have an "ish" mindset. It's gotta be close enough. If you try getting it perfectly as the reference you can end up with a bulky finished work that may have some distracting elements. It's ok to "ish" this. The camera does wonders.

(if you make stuff to sell, that's a different story. Finishing garments to make them suitable for other people sometimes takes as long as making the item.)

Construction

This doll will be permanently sewn into their clothing. It's easier this way at that scale. No bulk and resewing the garment isn't hard at all. The bodies are cheap enough you could have a body for fancy clothes permanently sewn on and a spare body for other clothing options. Sometimes I sew some dolls into their clothing, but not really any dolls beyond 1/4 scale. Bulk isn't that big a deal when the doll is larger.

To minimize bulk, I'm combining the pants and the shirt into one piece. The vest will cinch the waist and give the body an illusion of pants and shirt. So I'm making a big onesie to start.

Pattern

I trace the doll, add some necessary shapes and make sure the pattern has a very small seam allowance. In my experience, at this scale weird seams aren't noticed as much. I mark the halfway point on the doll, fold and cut out the pattern to make an even shape.

Sewing

At this scale I usually use Jersey knit or lycra. Look at the dance wear section of your fabric store for suitable fabric. The fabric doesn't fray and the stretchiness makes it very forgiving.

This fabric is very slippery, so it's OK if you turn the right sides in and sew around the pattern with a straight stitch BEFORE cutting out the garment. Make sure to add a small seam allowance. Also, every so over do a backstitch to keep the seams from unravelling. Stitch in time saves nine.

Then I cut the garment out. After that, one more secure whipstitch to all four seams (top of shoulders, sides of body.) I cut the back carefully to waist height and turn it right side out.

Finishing

I whipstitch the garment shut. The jodpurs aren't really sticking out as nice as I'd like but I may add some fluff. Finishing the cuffs tomorrow.

Nice things about lyric or jersey is you don't need to really hem anything.

Follow #resin Popia BTS to see updates. Or I can add you to my tag list!!!!

[sassy-ahsoka-tano]

The Leather Jumpsuit

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: Yes! - anon

Prompt: As a fashion designer, you work with Steve and Bones when they decide to take on Elvis’ comeback show. Sparks fly between you and Elviswhile they plan the show.

TW: None!

Rating: Pg-13     ||     Word Count: 3899

A/N: Idk how to write short fics anymore apparently...send help...or more requests 💕

🦋 mila

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

You're sitting in the dressing room, sketching the flare on a pair of leather pants when you hear voices down the hall.

“Alright now, Elvis, we’re hoping that you can channel your old self through the costumes you wear for the special…”

You recognize the voice immediately as Steve Binder’s. It gets louder as he approaches and comes into the dressing room. You nervously stand up when he enters with Bones Howe and the Elvis Presley. You intertwine your fingers behind your back to calm yourself. You’d never let anyone know it, but you are a massive Elvis fan. You’ve followed along on his journey since he was back singing in Memphis clubs. You hold out a hand.

“Hi, nice to meet you, Mr. Presley. I’m Y/N, and I’ll be handling your costumes for the special,” you say, gesturing him into the dressing room.

“Elvis, you won’t find a better, more meticulous designer anywhere in the world. Y/N is the best,” Steve say, and you thank him quietly. You refuse to flush, even though his compliment draws far too much attention to you.

“Very nice to meet ya,” Elvis responds, and you work hard to hide your shock at his deep voice. Of course you've heard it on the radio, but you are totally unprepared for how deep it really is. You say thank you to Steve and Bones and get straight to work as soon as they’d left.

“So, Mr. Presley-”

“Elvis, please,” he interrupts.

“I don’t refer to any clients by their first name-”

“Even if they ask you to?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“Especially not if they ask me to. Now, Mr. Presley, Steve and Bones tell me that you’re trying to reconnect with who you really are?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s the goal.”

“Big goal. It won’t be easy, but I think I can help you. It may not seem like it, but clothes are a huge part of who we are. They help us express what’s inside of us to other people,” you say. “We can also work backward to figure out what is inside of us that we’re reflecting on the outside through our clothes. So, I’ve pulled some of your looks from previous concerts, performances, shows, etcetera, and I figured we could use that to dig deep into what you actually want the final product to look like.”

“You really got this all figured out, don’t ya?”

“I come prepared to my meetings, Mr. Presley.”

“I like a girl who’s well-prepared,” he responds and you bury a creeping smile.

“But before we deal with style, let’s focus on the fabric. That will help us narrow some things down. So, what are you looking for? What kinds of fabrics do you like? What kinds do you hate?”

He doesn't say anything right away but rubs his fingers over his chin. The way his eyebrows furrow tell you he's deep in thought. After a few moments, you speak up.

“So…” you prompt him. “What do you want to wear? You can give me anything to start with.”

He glances up at the colored drawings you have taped up on the wall, but says nothing.

“Well, we know you’re not wearing a Christmas sweater, that’s for damn sure,” you say, shaking your head. “I think you should wear what you want to wear, but until you can decide what you really want we can’t make any decisions. So, if you’re still unsure, maybe we should jus-”

“I’m thinkin somethin unforgiving, badass, almost like…armor,” he cuts you off, that pensive look still creasing his features. You nod.

“If you want unforgiving, Mr. Presley, then you want leather,” you respond, starting to dig through your fabric samples.

“Leather? Why’s that?”

“Well,” you say, smiling when you find that scrap of Italian leather that you’ve been keeping for something special,” it’s unbearably hot, almost impossible to move in, and puts all your worst angles on display for everyone to judge.”

You hold the black strip of fabric up next to his face and nod.

“It’s about as unforgiving as you’re going to get in terms of fashion. And I do have to say, this Italian black leather looks magnificent on your skin tone.”

“Is this the kinda leather that would upset fine, upstandin white gentleman?” he asks, examining the sample. You laugh.

“Oh yes, sir. This is the kind of leather that would upset your own mother if she saw you wearing it,” you say.

“Steve and Bones were sayin somethin about a leather jacket…”

“Hm…” you glance back at some of the drawings of his previous looks and a thought occurred to you. “Just a jacket?”

“What are you thinkin in that genius brain of yours?” he asks.

You smile, imagining the entire look in your head and then on Elvis’ body. You have become obsessed with drawing him. Something about his body draws you to it, and you want to explore all its shapes and lines. You feel like you know him somehow through your drawings. And the way he dresses is so fashion-forward that it inspires the designer in you. You literally have mountains of ideas of how to dress him. You would be mortified if anyone found it, but somewhere in the room, there's a binder stuffed full of papers and scraps of parchment with drawings and sketches of potential outfits on them.

You know that you can pull one of these out and it will work for the special, but once Steve and Bones told you how much Elvis needs this concert, you had decided none of your previous designs are quite right. No, this performance needs something entirely unique, different, and attention-grabbing. It needs to invite people in, demand their attention, and make a statement that can't be ignored. You have the perfect solution.

“I’m thinking full leather. Everything leather. A whole jumpsuit, with a jacket and pants,” you say, searching for your drawing pad. Snatching it up and flipping to a new page, you scribble furiously. In just a few moments, you have a fully rendered design with startling accuracy.

“Yes!” you shout. “What do you think, Mr. Presley? I think this could be perfect. It is badass and strong. It commands attention and sustains it. It makes people look at you and accept you for who you are. It’s something you can’t ignore.”

He's looking intently at the drawing as you pace around the room with your excited arms flailing wildly. He looks up at you with a smile.

“How did you do that so fast?” he asks.

“You like it?”

“It’s perfect. This is exactly what I need to get my message across.”

“Excellent. Well If I can get started on it tonight then I should be able to finish it in two…maybe three weeks? That should give us enough time for a fitting and then alterations,” you are mumbling to yourself and jotting down notes on a different notepad.

“These are amazin, Y/N…” he mutters, and you turn to see him examining the drawings you have pinned up on the cork board. “The detail, the shading…me. Everything’s so realistic.”

“Thank you,” you say dryly, hoping to throw him off your tail. You will be mortified if he knows how obsessed with him you were, and you nervously glance toward the binder that is tucked away in a stack of shelves.

“How would you feel about bein my permanent designer?” he asks, and you nearly drop everything you're holding.

“What?”

“My permanent personal designer. These are all exactly what I’m lookin for.”

“Oh, I don’t know. What if you decided to go in a different aesthetic direction? Then I’d be no good to you,” you respond, banishing the thought of being so close to him every day. You can't take an opportunity like that without something going wrong. It's too good to be true.

“We could adapt, you and I,” he says, pulling down another design to examine it. You glance at him and shake your head.

“No…no I couldn’t.”

“Elvis, you’re needed for the ‘Here Comes Santa Claus’ rehearsal,” one of the stage managers shouts into the room.

Elvis sighs and groans, stacking up the designs and gently placing them on a table near you.

He grabs your arms and turn you to face him.

“Please think about it, wontcha? For me?” he asks, and you look into his eyes for the first time. He is truly gorgeous, and you feel totally overwhelmed.

“Alright. I’ll consider it.”

He smiles.

“Good. Cause I really, really want you around,” he says, and his eyes flick to your lips.

You can't bring yourself to say anything and before you regain consciousness, he's out the door. You sat down. What did he mean by that? You were sure it was just your fangirl heart exaggerating scenarios in your head, but what if he genuinely liked you? He said he wanted you around…no he really, really wanted you around. Whatever the outcome, you knew that this jumpsuit was about to be the most beautiful piece of fashion that ever existed.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

The next two weeks pass fairly uneventfully. Well, for you, at least. The Colonel has everyone going crazy trying to prepare for the Christmas special, and you are caught up in sewing sweaters and elf costumes all day. In your free time, which is rare, you're able to work on the leather jumpsuit. But most days, you find yourself huddled over the difficult fabric with a desk lamp, well after everyone else has left the building.

After the idea session, you'd seen Elvis every day. You collaborated, traded ideas, and made changes. Your passions combined and animated you both. He constantly complimented you and always left you with a smile.

But toward the end of the two weeks, he's started to disappear and you barely see him at all. Each day that goes by without seeing his face makes you more depressed and less sure that he's actually interested in you at all.

Nevertheless, you're pouring your heart and soul into the jumpsuit. All the love and admiration you feel for Elvis will be visible on this garment, whether you mean it or not.

One night you're working incredibly late, and your eyes are starting to stick together with sleep. You are, as you have been so many nights recently, hovering over the leather jacket, tediously hand-stitching a difficult and unique pattern that you had learned from your mother a long time ago. You could have used the sewing machine, but hand-stitched always looks better. And you know that no other garment in the world will have the same stitches that this one does. Your back ache and fingers are sore, but you keep sewing. You’ve made a deal with yourself to have at least the jacket finished tonight, and you are getting so close. It's some time past midnight, you’ve lost track, when a voice startles you.

“What the hell are you still doin here?”

You jump, accidentally stabbing your finger with the needle. When you jerk to face the door, your ankle hits something heavy and whatever it is falls to the ground with a bang. Your hand flies to your chest, and you release a breath when you see Elvis standing in the doorway.

“Ouch,” you mutter. “Mr. Presley, you scared me.”

You put the back of your hand up to your head.

“Woah, what happened?” he asks, coming closer to you. You stare at him, confused for a moment before he takes your hand and you realize what he's seen.

“Oh it’s nothing. I just stabbed myself by accident. It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before,” you reply. But when you try to pull your hand away from him, he won't let you. He grabs a piece of red cloth from the table nearby.

“Is this expensive?” he asks. You shake your head with a smile.

“No. It’s cheap cotton, about $1.50 per yard,” you respond, and he dabs it onto your finger. For whatever reason, your finger continues to bleed - not a lot but enough that the crap cotton isn't cutting it.

“Damn, this is cheap,” he says, and you chuckle. He throws the cotton onto the floor and raises your finger to his mouth. You grip onto the seat to keep yourself from falling out as he pops it into his mouth. You allow that much but when his tongue touches your finger, you pull it back and wipe it off on your clothes.

“Thanks, Mr. Presley,” you say and gulp.

“Please call me Elvis,” he says. “I think we’ve spent enough time together for that.”

“Well thank you, Elvis.”

Silence settles and as you're gathering yourself back together, he leans down to pick something up. It's a small square scrap of paper. As soon as he holds it up into the light, you know exactly what it is: you'd drawn a close-up of his face, but it isn't just any drawing. It's like a photograph. The colors, the shapes, everything is exactly where it's supposed to be and exactly the right size and shade. It's a drawing that only someone deeply in love — enough to notice the smallest of details — could have made. You think about ripping it back. But it's too late, he’s already seen it.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” you say nervously. “Sometimes to get to know my subjects better I do more in-depth drawings of what they look like. It helps me envision the outfits on them.”

He sits down across from you and nods slowly. His expression is a mixture of confusion and at least five other emotions that you can't place. You close your eyes, waiting for him to yell at you, fire you, or otherwise destroy your life. But you don't hear any harsh words. Or any words at all. Instead, you hear him pick up the binder and start to flip through it. You keep your eyes closed, not brave enough to confront the damage your clumsiness has done.

“You sure do have a lot of me…” he mumbles, and your eyes fly open. “And they’re all…”

You brace yourself.

“Incredible. Just amazing,” he whispers, and you release the breath you’ve been holding. “I’ve never seen anythin like it. I mean it’s a dead ringer for me.”

He holds up one of your drawings next to his face, and you laugh nervously. He puts the binder down and peers over at the jacket.

“And this,” he says, reaching for it. He pauses and looks to you, “Can I pick it up?”

“Yes, Elvis.”

He lifts it and holds it up to his chest, looking into the mirror. He doesn't finish his sentence and just shakes his head in disbelief.

“Do you wanna try it on?” you ask sheepishly. He whirls around.

“Can I?”

You laugh, nodding.

“I’ll get the pants. I’ve had to keep hiding them so nobody tattled on us, but I’ll carefully iron it before the actual show so it-”

You stop short when you turn around. He's shirtless already and is unzipping his pants.

“Will look brand new,” you quickly finish your sentence. You bring him the pants and then turn your back to cover your eyes.

“What are ya doin?” he asks.

“Well, you’re changing…”

“I’m not embarrassed. You can look,” he says, and you don't know what to do. If you had any self respect, you wouldn't have turned. But, the shameless side gets the best of you. When will you ever have this opportunity again?

You slowly turn and raise your eyes. He's mostly dressed; the pants are on, although unbuttoned, and he's pulling the leather jacket over his shoulders. He seems to be struggling, so you approach and help him pull the jacket all the way on. Your fingers accidentally brush his hairy chest, and you apologize.

“Don’t apologize, baby. I don’t mind,” he says, and you take a deep breath.

“Well, that’s probably good, because the pants definitely need some work,” you reply, trying to shrug off your butterflies.

He gets up onto the pedestal in the middle of the room and turns from side to side in the mirror.

“How does it feel?” you ask.

“Like home,” he responds. “Like me.”

“It looks damn good on you, Elvis,” you add. “I think it’ll be a real hit. But we’ll have to take the hem in a little here…”

You trail off and get lost in your thoughts. Before you know it, you're squeezing parts of his legs and feeling him up. When you realize what you're doing, you jump back and mutter an excuse me.

“Honey, you can keep doin that as long as you want,” he says with a smirk, and this time you can't contain your embarrassment.

“Oh believe me, it would be my pleasure,” you say in a joking tone.

You look up at him with a smile, which fades quickly when you see how he's looking at you. He's bent over, inches away from your face, staring directly at your lips. You clear your throat and tilt your head all the way up so that you're even closer to him. His finger finds its way to your chin, and he pulls you up for a kiss. You accept his lips timidly, and the kiss is only a short, sweet peck. When you part, he disappears from you. You open your eyes, and he's already putting his street clothes back on.

“It’s late,” he says, “I’ll drive ya home.”

Neither of you say anything to each other for the rest of the night. You pack up quietly and he drives you in silence to your house. When you get there, you mutter a quiet thanks and get out. He waves and then drives off, leaving you standing in the driveway.

When you go inside for bed, you throw yourself under the covers and try not to cry. You’ve screwed up. Something you did was wrong. You had an opportunity and you messed it up. You keep most of your tears at bay, although a few do fall before you fall asleep.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

The next week is even busier than the previous two. You get to work on the alterations for the jumpsuit and still keep up the Santa Claus act on the side. You don't spend any more late nights at the studio. Whether it's because you're embarrassed or afraid to confront him, you aren't sure. But you take the jumpsuit home with you and work on it in the garage.

The day before the show, you finish the last stitch. You really want Elvis to try it on again to make sure everything will fit perfectly, but you can't ever find him and everyone in the building always needs him for this or that. You give up after an hour of timid searching.

You stay around a little after hours to see if he’d be around, but when the lighting director tells you Elvis had left hours ago, you angrily throw your things together and head out.

How dare he, you think. How dare he treat me like this and then ignore me for a week. Well, he can’t avoid me tomorrow. He has to put the suit on, and I’m the only one who knows how to handle it.

You sleep horribly that night and wake up with a headache in the morning. Still, you wear your most attractive outfit and show up to work fifteen minutes early. You're ironing the pants when the King himself walks in.

“I’m here for my fittin,” he says dryly.

“Right this way, Mr. Presley,” you spit out the words without turning to look at him.

He steps on the pedestal and you finish the last bit of ironing. You bring the pants over first, even though they're still warm. You hand them over, and he shakes his hand.

“Ah, damn it’s hot,” he says.

“Oops,” you reply, feigning absentmindedness.

Once he has the pants on, you help him pull the jacket on and zip it up. You want to be forceful and angry with every movement, but this jumpsuit is your pride and joy. You aren't about to ruin that. You avoid his eyes the entire time. When you're finished dressing him, you turn away without a single word, but he catches your arm.

“Where do you get off not talkin to me?” he asks. “And callin me Mr. Presley. I thought we moved past that.”

You yank your wrist away.

“And I thought we’d moved past being children a long time ago,” you respond, still refusing to look at him.

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You stay silent, wanting to make him suffer for a minute. He stomps off the platform and grabs your arm again.

“What the hell does that mean?” he repeats, and you shake him off again.

“Ignoring me? After you stood here and flirted with me, and kissed me, and sucked on my goddamn finger? How dare you,” you hiss back.

“I haven’t been-! Ugh!” he sbouts and then take a deep breath. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was leavin you alone cause I thought you weren't interested.”

“Not interested?!” you yell. “How the hell could you think I wasn’t interested? I draw you nonstop. I think about you all the time. I’ve devoted every goddamn waking moment of the last month that I possibly could to make your stupid jumpsuit. I’ve put real blood, sweat, and tears into this. And when you kissed me I was the happiest I’ve ever been! But you had to ruin it, didn’t you?!”

You whirl around to hide the fact that tears are falling down your face. A few moments of silence pass before you feel his hand gently pulling your shoulder. You try to resist, but he's too strong. You won't meet his eyes and are too proud to wipe your own tears. His calloused fingers gently swipe the falling drops from your cheekbones and you huff.

“I’ve been so stupid,” he says quietly. “You’re right…I can’t believe I didn’t see it. I didn’t mean to hurt you, Y/N. I just didn’t think you wanted me cause when we kissed you…well you gave me nothin.”

“I was too shocked to move,” you whisper. “I didn’t ever expect in my life that Elvis Presley would want to kiss me. Little old me.”

A moment of silence passes.

“Well, Elvis Presley would like to kiss you again now, if that’s aright?”

You turn to face him and see the sincerity in his eyes. You nod slowly. He gently guides your face and lips to his and gives you a tender, long kiss. You make sure to kiss him back this time, not wanting to make the same mistake twice. This time when you pull back, you both smile.

“Elvis, the show starts in a few minutes,” one of the stage managers interrupts. “The Colonel wants you to get out there now.”

“I gotta go. One more kiss for good luck?” he asks. You shake your head but kiss him anyway. You pull back faster than he's ready for.

“You can get the rest of it when you come back. Now go out there and make my leather suit your bitch,” you say. He laughs, kisses your cheek, and runs out to the stage.

─────•~❉᯽❉~•─────

Reblogs, likes, comments + feedback are extremely appreciated! Please help support your content creators!

**If you notice any triggers or grammatical errors that I missed, please let me know! :)

[jellolegos]

Oh say more about Rojascorp queen.......

I am going to try and articulate my feelings on Rojascorp in a way that is coherent and intelligent (honestly those words have never been used to describe my writing in my entire life) BUT here goes.

What I think I really love about Rojascorp is the tension derived from the dynamic of "I love you, I hate you, I will always be a part of you" and the way that those phrases act in a fluid state throughout the course of their decades long relationship.

I think that dynamic is very much heightened by the fact that the bond between Lena and Andrea occurs in their teenage and early adulthood. It feels like a rite of passage as a queer woman to have a homoerotic friendship with someone in your teenage years that simultaneously destroys you and shapes the way you view all of your future relationships. If I can push a little further and consider the topography of Lena's life, Andrea enters at a period where she has first lost her mother but not yet had her relationship with Lex distorted by his evildoing. This means that she would (if we are to just engage with them hypothetically as romantic partners/girlfriends/whatever), likely represent a first heartbreak and first true betrayal for Lena. There is something so uniquely tactile with the combination of first love and first heartbreak, especially for a character like Lena and I find it totally fascinating! Much the same could be said about Rhaenicent.

I also think a parallel that you could draw between Rhaenicent and Rojascorp is the way that class and rank could act as further strains on a budding romantic relationship (beyond just the boilerplate misogyny and homophobia). For Alicent and Rhaenyra the restriction is very clear, they are royals who need heirs. To engage in a relationship with another woman would disrupt the social fabric in a way so devastating that they could never recover. The way these women contend with this fate is one of the main strands of the show. Rhaenyra is able to find companionship with a man and Alicent, unable to do so in a similar capacity, retreats further into her religious zealotry and role as a mother (I LOVE show!alicent, please don't get me wrong, but I think it's hard to deny the way that her religion offers a clear escape and in many ways a form of self-punishment -- I could go on and on about Rhaenicent, I love them. BUT I don't think that is what you were after)

Where this gets a little more tricky to see clearly, in part because of the CW's awful writing and in part because of the very American romanticized ideal of a self-made millionaire/billionaire, is with Lena. If we are to believe that Lena is the sole inheritor of an aristocratic legacy as a billionaire, that imposes an entirely different set of social constraints on who she could involve herself with romantically. The CW (in my opinion) does a very bad job of portraying Lena as a wealthy person (her clothes, her offices, just the general ways she lives her life are so horribly distorted from the true level of wealth she is meant to have). But if we are to even bring a fraction of the physics that apply to the normal billionaire class, you again encounter the same issue: you need an heir. Just for reference, if you look at a list of the top 10 wealthiest women, all of them (sans the Waltons for hopefully pretty obvious reasons) have children who could act as dynastic inheritors. This would further complicate the potential for a romantic relationship with a woman. Although Andrea is likely of the same class (we get hints of it when we see her with her dad and obviously she's at the same Andover/Exeter/Trinity-coded boarding school), she is a woman which I would argue imposes the exact same restrictions as it does on Rhaenyra/Alicent, especially if we are going to dive into the WASP vibes that I think are implied with Lillian/just the American aristocratic class in general. This would heighten the taboo nature of the relationship, and make the realization of the weight of queerness all the more impactful (maybe I'm just too far into my reread of Oranges forgive me if this is not making any sense).

I think these two layers of first love/heartbreak and first bite of (for lack of more eloquent wording) the forbidden fruit, are so compelling and would be so informative about Lena as a character if they were applied. Her cynicism and general guardedness would have been seeds sewn not only by her mother's death but by the subsequent tragedies and betrayals she felt with her first romantic partner. Her overreaction and decision to create a tool that would force people to tell the truth, and only the truth, would hold so much more weight if paired with a B-plot that introduced her early heartbreak and parallels to Kara's betrayal. I am a horrible fiction writer, but if I were ever to write a character study of Lena in the form of a ficlet, Andrea would have to be a part of it purely as there is just so much to explore with her as a character alone and in Lena's early adulthood.

(One last thing then I will shut up I promise haha)

In a meta sense, I think what becomes clear to me is that Andrea seems to demonstrate how not canonizing supercorp was just as much about the "corp" as it was about the "super". I think I was always under the impression that the CW kept from canonizing supercorp as it would "endanger" (sorry, I hope you get my point here) their titular character. The risk to the network was in making their main character queer, not in making Lena queer. I think Andrea really offered them an easy out in this regard. Supercorp was well established as possible among the fans, and Lena had broken up with James for a number of episodes. Inserting a new romantic pairing would be easy and introducing Andrea as a former fling would be an easy way to make Lena queer (and hopefully appease fans [I know, I know. But let's think like a showrunner here]) but still make her unavailable for pairing with Kara. Andrea's lover could have easily been swapped with a brother, paralleling Lena's own fractured relationship with Lex. Lena would do anything for Lex, just as Andrea would do anything for her brother including betraying her girlhood fling. I guess in that sense it felt like such a natural way to simultaneously please the network and the fans who (obviously, rightfully) were frustrated at the overall romantic coding of two ostensibly straight women. Alex or Sam could have also presented viable options, but I think neither fit as smoothly into the position of "Lena's-fling-turned-ex-turned-fling-and-guess-what-she's-now-evil". I was really peripherally tuned into the show/drama pre-2020 so obviously I could be missing something but I guess that felt like a very obvious missed opportunity. The only thing I can really conclude is that they valued Lena not being queer just as much as Kara not being queer (maybe two queer female couples was too much? I'm not sure).

TLDR: I love supercorp with my whole heart AND I think Rojascorp is an incredible pairing and dynamic to explore. I think they have a lot of fanon parallels to Alicent and Rhaenyra (I could go on and on about Rhaenicent/HotD/ASOIAF but I think this is too long of an answer already, haha). There are a few Rojascorp fics/fic writers that I cling to with my entire heart and soul, I love you guys <3

[esotericas-sims]

Some first attempts at recreating Meiji Period outfits based on artworks by Yōshū Chikanobu.

Thoughts & references below the cut.

Masao's is based on this image from 1882,

And Hana's is based on this one which is from 1887,

Generally based on his artwork it seems like people either dressed "western" or "Japanese," I don't see a ton of examples of fusion of the two styles. Obviously, many of the women in "western" dress are still using Japanese fabrics, prints, and color combos, which are mostly what I used to help Hana's outfit match the inspirations. There are some examples of proper fusion, where people are wearing both Japanese and western clothes, and they largely seem to be on teenage girls?

The girl in this artwork from 1897 has a western hairstyle, a Japanese kimono, and what looks like a western dress on underneath? It's hard to tell, seeing as there's not much showing, but the pattern of the fabric and the shape of the sleeves seem very western.

Similarly, one girl in this image from 1890 seems to be wearing a kimono over the top of a more western-styled dress, with its button collar and narrow sleeves, but a Japanese-style skirt (or pants? the crease in the middle makes it look almost like pants) underneath.

Menswear looks like it's generally a lot simpler - I see a lot of double breasted military style coats in artworks of the Emperor, like this one. (Wikipedia claims it's from 1850 which is obviously not correct, but I'm not enough of an expert to try and date the artwork based on the outfits.)

Also notable, clearly male children were dressed pretty much like adult men. In this case, the kid has no sash, but the style is the same, with a double-breasted coat, about knee length, and all in black with gold trimmings. The men's outfits (when they're dressing western) in Chikanobu's artworks are all very similar, with minimal variation from figure to figure.

Another notable image I found is a dancing scene in this image from 1888. What stuck out to me was the fit of the top portion of the men's tailcoats, which is very different from men's eveningwear in the west.

Compared to this portrait from 1883, the Japanese coats clearly button further up the chest - I'm not sure I see a waistcoat at all, although it's hard to tell due to image resolution.

I am far from an expert on any sort of Japanese fashion, nor really on any historical fashion at all, so if anyone has information to offer (or cc to recommend, I'm really struggling here) I'd be happy to hear them!

[inkybloom-luv]

Words Unsaid 5, Scarabian parties are loud

♪~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♪

Professor Ségdae Tonyx belongs to @dove-da-birb who has graciously allowed me to use them as an actually good teacher that cares about Inky,, justice for Inky, ramshackle is terrible

Hi hi hi everyone! Part 5 is here and for those who maybe need a little nudge, Inky is in fact, a little ✨tistic✨ and for this chapter I've been pulling from my personal experiences but I find it's a little hard to describe at times, I still tried my best for y'all tho!!

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Part 6 Part 7

Tw: meltdown; trash talk

2.1+ k words

♪~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♪

When the call came in through the more than slightly old wall mounted landline that the Ramshackle prefect and Grim were to pack their clothing as well as other essentials and report to the headmage's office immediately, Inky was left confused and Grim, well, he was worried that they were getting thrown out after all. "Because the prefect wasn't pulling their weight" he said, knowing that he caused more messes than she did. So they both sat in the office silently.

They had been soaked and shivered from the raging storm, which had rolled in from the sea around the island and due to its nature, as it was a magical storm, would not stop for a few days, maybe even the rest of the week, but that was unlikely according to the headmage. Also according to the headmage, they would be temporarily residing in Scarabia. Reason being that the Al Asim family had agreed to donate funds for the renovation of Ramshackle. Why they donated? The headmage would not say, but it was absolutely because of the absolute garbage living conditions of having to stay in a building that was falling apart around Inky and grim.

"Thanks to my endless generosity, and a hefty donation by the Al Asims, Ramshackle will be renovated! Professor Tonyxx will be overseeing the process as they insisted..!" Were his words. At this point this was dragging in entirely too long and the prefect was somewhat struggling with the feeling of the wet fabric against their skin. Inky had always hated the feeling. Sensory issues are what that feeling was referred to. Usually Inky would manage, sure, a little wet clothing was fine, but this time she was soaked and she hated it. It was getting more and more overwhelming when their thought process got interrupted with a knock from the door.

"Headmage, is the prefect in yet? Kalim sent me to pick them up" A familiar, albeit muffled voice sounded through the door. It was Jamil.

"Come in Viper, they're here..!" The headmage answered and the old mahogany door opened to reveal Jamil Viper, clad in his dorm uniform, hood pulled up, the one that made him look like a snake from the side, as Inky had remarked in a letter. Even if Jamil had no clue about that. She looked at him, all dry and still so pretty. He was recovering, well, to her, he should have already been fully recovered despite a slight pain still surprising Jamil every now and then.

Inky nodded up at Jamil in greeting, which he returned, puzzled on the inside on why she was still wet and hadn't been offered a towel at the very least. "Take her and Grim to Scarabia and ensure she feels welcome there viper..!" The headmage said, mumbling something about how he was generous enough to allow this.

Outside of the slightly dark office Jamil used his magic pen to summon a towel each for both grim and Inky, though while Grim had his towel flopped down onto him by magic, Jamil was nice enough to actually hand over the towel meant for the prefect. "Here, you're still soaking wet.. the headmage didn't offer you anything to dry off with I see..?" He said, to which the prefect shook her head. They weren't even speaking to him apparently. Not like Jamil would know but the prefect had simply gone nonverbal.. Grim however communicated just fine and thanked Jamil for both of them.

Generously enough Jamil carried the one slightly large bag the prefect did have while the prefect in question carried a smaller bag with Grim's essentials. Jamil noticeably slowed his pace when he realised the prefect was limping a bit, the fact that he still saw the bandage on their arm, he regretted hurting her. It would most definitely leave a scar, aside from that all the other more minor injuries did still worry him. Crowley was running this girl more ragged than Kalim ran him at times. Jamil felt guilty for what he did, adding to her woes instead of lightening the load like everyone else should have done ages ago. He felt sick to his stomach when he remembered he'd sent her to die out in the desert after she'd nearly drowned barely a few weeks before. And now they weren't even speaking to him.

At least they'd reached Scarabia in little time despite going slower than usual. Kalim was there to greet them both, waving at the prefect. He dragged them off to their new room, Jamil and Grim in tow, so that Inky could put her things away and shower so they could heat up their cold body. Kalim gave them the whole excited spiel of them making themselves at home with Grim and that there was a small party later that had been planned in advance. The prefect was welcome to join them, according to Kalim. While she showered and changed Jamil was busy in the kitchens preparing some finger foods for the party that would be in a few hours, two maybe.

If he was really honest he wasn't even actually thinking about the food, but Inky instead. Something was up. Something about her felt a bit more off. They were struggling to keep their eyes open earlier. And she hadn't said a word since.. well, since he had come to pick her up. Maybe even before, he didn't know. He wished he did. He wished he knew.

Apparently the prefect spent a long time in the extra bathroom, that was according to grim, who had joined Kalim in the lounge. Him and the housewarden were talking.

"Inky's overwhelmed today. She has been for a while.. don't tell her I told you this though, she'll get upset because she'll 'dampen the mood' or whatever.. can you give me more of that tuna?" The cat thing said, nodding along when Kalim handed the delicious canned food over.

"Thank you.. anyway. She likes Jamil a whole lot, read her.. well it's not a diary but whatever. Have him watch over her a bit tonight. There's gonna be a few really loud people here today from what you've said about this party." Grim finished as Kalim agreed to what grim was saying.

"Yeah.. I'll host less parties while she's here, this one's just been planned for a really long time, or I'd be calling it off at any moment" the white haired housewarden laughed to himself, if only to make the topic feel less heavy. "He'll be there to watch over her, no worries..!"

When it was time and the party was in full swing it was a lot of things all at once, people chatting, music playing, lights that flashed and pulsed along the walls and decorations. The prefect Inky stood in the corner farthest away from the loud music in a t-shirt and sweatpants courtesy of Kalim, she'd refunded anything else as she wasn't really in the mood to wear something that could pay for her living expenses for months. Unfortunately some Pomefiore students had thought she'd be rather fun to mock because of this. They witnessed her orientation, they witnessed how the mirror had told her she was not wanted at this school. And they didn't like the way she looked that night, it was a party, not her living room, so why should she show up in sweatpants and a t-shirt? A cute little party dress was the right way to go, but she wouldn't fit into one. That's what they were whispering about at least. Not that it was true but at the moment Inky had little will to fight back.

Fact is she was really only barely keeping it together. The party was too loud for right now, she was exhausted and people were making fun of her. So as tears started forming in her eyes she sank to the floor, covering her ears as they started falling. Her body shook as she sat there crying at the back of the lounge as the Pomefiore students continued to mock her, but they were quickly silenced when Jamil approached them, and he glared at them.

"What joke must you be telling that it's got all of you laughing? Please, do tell me so I can tell the housewarden, I'm sure he'd love to hear it as well" He said, venom lacing his words, which seemed to send them spluttering for an excuse before dispersing. All of them avoided his gaze in fear of getting hypnotised. Good. He might've. But instead of focusing on that he went over to Inky, who had been trying her best to be quiet and to block out the song blasting through the speakers at the moment. He knelt down to her, tapping one of her knees gently. It got her attention, she flinched slightly in surprise in response before lifting her head quickly and looking at Jamil with wide, tear filled eyes. She looked so frightened, Jamil's heart sank. He hoped with every fiber of his being he wasn't the cause, but at least.. she looked at him, in his eyes. He nodded towards a door. That one led to a corridor, where the way to Kalim and his rooms were. It would be quiet there, his room was somewhat soundproof after all. He held out his hands and quickly, along with a sound that indicated she wanted out, Inky gripped them. Jamil recognised the simptoms, a meltdown. The way she was covering her ears before he intervened, she was pulling at her hair.

She wanted out. So he would take her out. She was breathing heavier than normal, heaving slightly even, as if a boa constrictor was wrapped around her neck. And if he could alleviate whatever else she felt, he would. It wasn't enough to make up for the scar that was forming on her arm.. but it was a start to him.

Luckily the walk wasn't long. And once there he guided her to sit on his bed, so that he could close the door fully and lock it too, they didn't need any disturbance right now. Who knows what that would do. So now he stood across from her, from Inky. She clutched her legs to her chest as she cried a little more, so Jamil gave her a glass of water. She didn't like the taste, he knew because she'd mentioned it over lunch, but it was all he had at the moment and he didn't want her to have a headache.

They sat in silence. They sat across from each other until she was done. She was looking at the bed Inky sat on most of that time while Jamil's eyes were on her and her only. Yes Jamil was worried for her since she wouldn't speak, couldn't speak, but he still found her pretty, even now when she looked so disheveled. How come he never noticed just how pretty he thought she was? But then she was done. And he placed the glass on his nightstand. What now? He didn't know what to do, but he should think of something, right? Why was it that now of all situations when he needed his brain to work as normal, it wouldn't? What was it that really made his mind blank so much?

Jamil was in his own head at the moment, maybe even a little too far for once, since he hadn't even noticed Inky uncurl herself slightly to come closer, closer and closer yet, only to somewhat throw herself at him to hug him. And she just cried. That's what brought Jamil back from his almost chronic habit of overthinking so that he could find a good solution. But now instead of thinking about what he could do to help her, he landed on his bed, Inky half way on top of him and laying there holding onto him for comfort as she let out an actual sob.. and a sniffle and another and another.

It took him a second but he realised all he had to do.. was hold her there for a bit until she didn't cry anymore, until she felt comforted enough. Not that Inky did move after she stopped crying. She was too tired and it was warm and comfortable where she was. So she fell asleep, right there, resting her head on Jamil's chest. And Jamil stayed there. The dark haired young man had no intention of waking her for once, because right now? He was crying himself. He didn't even notice. But he knew she didn't hate him now. That she trusted him enough to not attack her again. That she felt safe around him. And so for once, he too slept. Because he could, once at least, not bother with the party or the cleaning. This was more important. This felt better.

♪~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~♪

@azulashengrottospiano

@leonistic

@krenenbaker

@cy-inky

@escaaaaaanyeh

@achy-boo

[easy-revenge]

Imagine Aki randomly finding things Himeno left behind at his place while cleaning or doing laundry. A tank top in his laundry. Her book she never finished reading. Her lighter she kept misplacing. Her shampoo he always loved the smell of. He keeps all of these things in a shoebox and he wishes he could find a photo of her. He's so scared of forgetting her face, even though he knows that can't possibly happen. Haha. I'm fine.

i was gonna answer these in chronological order since I've fallen off the face of the earth but i got this ask yesterday and i haven't stopped thinking about it......

criminal line of thinking. right up my alley.

i reposted fujimoto talking about her the other day which this post is a reference to and amidst all the love and respect his words about himeno conveyed, that line stuck with me.

it's so real of him to say that himeno leaves things of hers in aki's apartment. the follow up about her leaving little parts of herself in ppl's lives? not ready to talk about that yet, it's such a himeno thing and if sb doesn't say this about me after im dead i might as well not have lived /hj

anyways back to this. time to talk about grief again. oof. aki is such the type to be so quiet about it. he'd have such a personal grieving process.

him doing his errants at the crack of dawn and finding himeno's tank top in his laundry, briefly wondering if it belongs to power but knowing better. the way he'd stay very still for a moment, gripping the soft fabric a little too hard, knowing he washed every last bit of himeno off of it already. all but his memory of her wearing it, gone.

he'd definitely keep the things in a shoe box in a secluded place in his room. mostly to keep them safe from denji and power. somewhere inside also knowing that not seeing them around all the time will eventually help him heal. if he even has enough time left for that.

i imagine even after safely collecting everything and tucking it away, he'd still be reminded of her often. power sitting crosslegged on the balcony's chair just like himeno used to do. denji crouching in front of the fridge to inspect its contents, elbows on his knees.

every time, aki would lose his train of thought, stay still, stare for a moment, then seemingly snap out of it.

he does worry about forgetting her. not just her face. her voice, the way she would sing-song every sentence when she was tipsy, her easy smile, the blush on her cheeks. her touch, her casual affection, her long, knowing looks.

even the small things. the way she would hold a cigarette and refuse to dab the ash off until it was basically hanging off of it and threatening to burn any piece of clothing or paperwork around to cinders. her satisfied sigh after the first sip of cold beer.

the way she'd let her guard down around him sometimes, when they would sit in silence for a long time, her face muscles relaxing and her gaze getting more vacant. it'd remind aki of the himeno he met at the cemetery. selfish and honest and lonely. it never failed to bring tears to aki's eyes. he was always quick to cry.

it gets worse the more time goes by. he thinks about her less. his own life a slippery thing in his hands and his goals staying unachieved and unachievable.

it feels like even more of a betrayal when he asks to be off the gun devil mission. knowing he'd go private without a second thought now if it meant securing a normal, safe life for power and denji. knowing he could've had this with himeno if he'd only said yes back then. he'd be spared so much loss. he'd be spared from loving more people who were just as disposable and temporary as him.

yet he can't bring himself to regret any of it.

the shoe box collects dust in his room and aki keeps his fingers loose around his feeble, unimportant life and his heart open till the end.

[360degreesasthecrowflies]

There are a huge number of gender-crossing elements in the Harry Potter books!

Honestly, not to beat a dead horse here but it’s utterly WILD that JK Rowling, head British TERF managed to put into her fictional world that she didn’t want to have any trans-ness or gender barrier crossing within elements including:

A gender-neutral school uniform worn by all students

Gender-neutral clothing that is worn by all adults, including males wearing bright, traditionally feminine colours and fabrics like lace, satin, silk, with nobody finding this strange or unusual

The one sport participated in at Hogwarts and the largest sport in wizarding society is co-ed, with male and female players on the same team both at school and professional level, not divided into men’s and women’s leagues

Changing rooms are co-ed, with the implication at multiple points that cis boys and girls change clothes and shower communally in front of each other, with no suggestion that there are cubicles or other such barriers

The large, bearded hero Hagrid has many traditionally feminine accoutrements, likes the colour pink, and refers to themself with she/her pronouns on multiple occasions

The first book includes a pivotal scene where cis boys have to go into the girls’ bathroom in order to rescue a girl and the girl is very thankful that they went in to save her. Teachers witness this and do not punish or admonish the boys for entering the girls’ bathroom.

The second book includes many pivotal scenes where cis boys are in the girls’ bathroom. They are invited in by a girl who is perfectly comfortable with them being there. If they had not entered the girls’ bathroom they would not have been able to participate in multiple major plot points, and a female student would have died because they had not been there to save her.

A potion exists by which people can transform their whole bodies into other people - which can be used to change gender, which is demonstrated on multiple occasions

Certain people exist who can transform their bodies into other forms without the aid of potions

The most famous band in the wizarding world is The Weird Sisters, a group made up of males only who are quite comfortable using a feminine name for their group. Nobody finds it unusual or remark-worthy that none of the Weird Sisters are women.

One male and one female Prefect are chosen from each year group and they have their own special bathroom. This bathroom is co-ed and the bathing facility is one communal tub, with no indication that there are also separate bathing or showering facilities, separating screens or anything for privacy or modesty

Male characters frequently have long flowing hair which is typically associated with female characters in children’s fiction

It is visibly hard to tell the gender of non-human magical beings, which is described on several occasions

Characters who are most stereotypically and self-assuredly masculine or feminine (the Dursleys, Cormac McLaggen, Lavender Brown) are looked down upon and are figures of embarrassment and fun for the heroes of the story.

In isolation any of these elements could be taken as a hint that the author was quite open-minded or did not care so much about traditional views of gender, normality and/or propriety. The fact that Rowling was able to write in all of these elements when she didn’t need to and could quite easily have chosen to not include them, if she firmly wanted to depict a world with strict gender boundaries, is thus either a sign of exceptionally poor writing, blinkers on as to what kind of society she was actually describing as opposed to what she intended to portray, or a suggestion that in actuality the lady doth protest too much - and that much of her latest rants and ramblings about trans people and the threat they pose are more stubbornness at being challenged and/or trying to stay in with her ‘new friends’ rather than views she has consistently held all through her life.

How does it all possibly add up, otherwise?

[miscelunaaa]

cuffing szn 2 | knj

pairing: fbi agent!namjoon x soft-bodied/plus-sized female reader

genre: strangers to lovers, an attempt at crack??, little bit of angst, smut

summary: All Namjoon wants is some peace and quiet after a long, shitty day at work. Thanks to a party upstairs and Jungkook’s sticky fingers, he’s stuck with you instead.

rating: 18+ for explicit sexual content

word count: 6.3k

warnings: Swearing, always. Accidental spooning. Awkward morning wood. Namjoon’s morning voice 😵‍💫. Smut in the form of: Kissing. Grinding. Fingering. Clothed sex. Dirty talk. Use of pet name (baby). Mild body insecurity. Light degradation (use of the word “slut” like once or twice). Consent kink if you squint ig??? Lots of checking in. Flirting probably? Namjoon at some point refers to you as a goth girl. Descriptions of a soft body, including stretch marks and how one’s flesh fills another’s hands. Um, size kink I guess because reader likes the fact that our big beautiful brain boy is BIG, but I make no references to a size difference between the two of them. Destruction of hosiery. Very light thigh biting. Oral, female receiving. Fingering. Big Dick!Namjoon. More checking in. Protected sex. Incidental cockwarming. Boinkus Coitus Interruptus. Jungkook’s an idiot but we love him. Namjoon is an idiot and we love him also. Feelings???

notes: Hello! Please note that I have updated the warnings on the masterlist for this fic, including the big smut warnings. Also note that instead of three parts, there are now four. I really love these two and just let them keep talking?? I figured no one would mind! I also prefer editing smaller chunks of writing and this happened to fairly neatly fit into four parts, so I just went with it. ALSO LET IT BE KNOWN I STARTED WRITING THIS WAY BEFORE NAMJOON STARTED ACTIVELY RUINING MY LIFE IN A SUIT WITH DARK HAIR AND I FEEL PERSONALLY ATTACKED BY THE FESTA PICS AND THE PRESS PHOTOS FROM THE WHITE HOUSE??????? LIKE WHY IS HE LIKE THAT??????? Okay I’m done. For now. Part three will be out on June 9! Let me know what you think :)

my masterlist | my disclaimers | read on ao3 | soft-bodied reader essay

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You wake up with heavy arms wrapped around you. For a moment, you wonder how you’ve ended up in bed with your ex, but this person doesn’t smell like him. Not even close. Where he was musk and leather, this new person’s scent is aquatic and woodsy. You decide you like it.

You go to rub your face, but there’s something metallic and cold on your wrist, weighted down with something.

Fuck. Right. Jin and Hobi’s bachelor party. The handcuffs. A kind of cute, self-loathing federal agent with nice hands and a big, broad chest. Couch probably uncomfortable. Laying on stomach versus side.

So much for that.

The light in Namjoon’s bedroom is dim, a gray dawn beginning to filter through the blinds that you hadn’t noticed the night before.

You can’t make yourself pull away. It feels nice waking up in someone’s arms, even if he is a stranger who originally wanted nothing to do with you. You must have rolled over in your sleep, or he had, or something. The way he fits to your back, warm and solid, is a comfort you didn’t think you’d get to feel any time soon.

Your hips and shoulders ache a little, though, just from the way you’ve been laying on them for so long. You try to adjust but, as if waking up like this wasn’t strange enough, you feel your ass brush past something hard, located a little lower than his waist. His suit pants are so thin, they hide absolutely nothing.

Fuck.

Your attempt at getting more comfortable makes Namjoon groan. It rumbles through his chest and into the back of your ribcage. He pulls you closer, the length of your spine flush with his front. His hot palm spreads over the swell of your stomach, before fisting the fabric, as if holding tight means you can’t easily brush him away. His erection is pressed into your ass now, and for a moment, the stillness of the room makes you question whether Namjoon’s woken up or not. You wonder if he knows how hot you feel under your clothes, the constriction of your tights becoming almost unbearable.

Do you want him? Is that what this feeling is? Or is it just because you feel wanted, feel necessary, with his arms around you?

You should wake him. If you wake him, the morning wood will go away after he’s talked for a bit. You don’t even have to mention it to him; it’s natural and he’s young and seems healthy enough, gruff attitude not withstanding. He doesn’t have to know how nice it felt to wake up being the little spoon instead of waking up alone.

You brush your hand over his. It relaxes, the fingers spreading over your flesh again, and moving to your hip to rest. Your entire body throbs as he brushes his finger tips sleepily over your dress, the skin beneath pleading to be touched.

You need to get out of here. You need a cold shower and coffee and an evening spent with a raunchy novel and your vibrator. Apparently it’s been too long; mere brushes with his hands are making you scream internally for more attention.

“Namjoon,” you say softly.

For a moment, nothing happens, but then you feel his chest expand as he takes in a great breath and lets it out, the hot air tickling your neck.

“Morning, baby,” he says, rubbing his palm into your hip. His voice is impossibly low, breathy and dry with the morning.

You’re so surprised at what the words themselves, let alone what they sound like in /that/ voice. The temperature under your clothes inches up even further, you’re ashamed to admit. This fucking dry spell doesn’t need more heat in the mix. All it’d take is an errant spark and your body would be set aflame.

“I … I’m sorry. For a minute I thought—”

“It’s okay. I woke up a bit disoriented too.”

“Mm,” Namjoon grunts in response. And yet he doesn’t pull away from you; you can still feel how hard he is against your ass, how hot his hand feels at your hip. What you wouldn’t give for him slip his hand beneath your clothes. He speaks again:

“You alright? You seem to be breathing hard.”

“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.” A lie. You had. You’re so fucking horny that you can hardly keep it together. You can’t make your focus move from the bulge still pressing into you from behind, the large hand on your hip, the broad chest at your back. Has he not even noticed how your bodies fit together?

“You seem tense.”

“Probably just slept funny.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks; you wonder if he can hear you trying to breathe more slowly. But then he speaks again, more clearly, still keeping his voice low.

“Look. I don’t know how to ask this without sounding presumptuous. If I’m wrong, you can tell me to fuck off and we’ll go find Jungkook to get my fucking cuff keys and never see each other again. But … is there a chance you’re as horny as I am right now?”

Your heart’s pounding, the blood rushing through your ears. The word comes rushing out before you can hardly think. He’s so grumpy most of the time that you just want to see what his face looks like when he’s actually enjoying something. You want that something to be you.

“Yes.”

You want this. You want him so badly. You hardly know him but all you want is every inch of the cock poking your ass buried inside you to the hilt.

His entire body has stiffened behind you. He’s trying not to coax you into anything, to ply you with sweet touches so that you might say yes. He wants an answer from you, and not from you under his finger tips.

“Do you want to help each other out with this?”

“Please. Please, Namjoon,” you plead. That’s all it takes for him to seize your hips and start rocking his erection into your ass.

“Thank fucking god,” he breathes, his lips on your neck, fingers digging into your flesh. “I haven’t woken up this hard in months.”

“I can’t even remember the last orgasm I had without a vibrator involved,” you quip back.

“Is that a challenge?” Namjoon growls. He’s already reaching for the hem of your dress, tugging at the cuffs connecting you as he starts to push it up.

“And if it is?”

As his hands tug your dress hem up and start slipping under the waistband of your tights, he uses the leverage to press you harder into his hips. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Talk to me.”

“I just want to forget all my shit for a little while,” you gasp. His cuffed hand has dug beneath your tights, the steel cold against your hot skin. Your own cuffed hand is over his, guiding him down to find your clit as he continues to hump you from behind.

You wish you could see how fucked out he was. What you wouldn’t give to kiss those full lips which had been pressed into a thin line of irritation for so much of the night before. The way his mouth feels on your skin is addicting; each lick and suck he presses to your neck has your body singing with arousal.

He starts working your clit, pressing gentle circles around it as he groans into his thrusts. His other hand, the free one, is trying to rub at your breasts, but he gives up and spreads his fingers wide at your collar bone.

“Fuck,” you moan. “Like that, please.” He’s finally settled into a rhythm that feels more tantalizing than your own fingers have been able to be; their length means he can sink further into your folds, and the sensation has your head swimming.

The movement of his lips tickles your ear. “Did you wake up this wet?”

“Maybe?” you breathe. You’re so out of your element right now; the only thing that helps you feel less so is the fact that Namjoon’s implied he’s also experiencing a dry spell.

“Are you into degradation?”

“S-sure, just don’t call me fat,” you stutter as he presses into your clit a little more. This is the most intoxicated you’ve felt in months.

His laugh is low, warm in your neck as he nips at your skin. “Your body’s amazing, baby. I just really love that you’re such a slut for me even with your clothes on.”

The moan escapes you before you can even think to stop it. “Why is that so hot?”

“I really don’t know but I’m glad you like it,” he laughs with a huff. He’s sounding progressively more wrecked, his body so hot against your back that your dress is beginning to stick to you. “I need more, do you need more?”

“Fuck, please.”

Namjoon pulls away. For a moment, nothing happens, but then you feel his left hand, the cuffed one, take yours and lace his fingers between your own. You turn to your back, and he settles easily above you, between your spread legs. The very look on his face makes your entire body throb. His eyes are hooded and intense; as his gaze flits between your eyes and your lips, you feel more naked than when he’d had his fingers beneath your clothes. You can’t take it any longer.

“Kiss me.”

He’s begun to grind into you, supporting his weight with his one arm as he gently holds your hand. Up until now he’s seemed serious, but your demand makes him smile.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him let his guard down like that; you want to melt into the bed. This hardass has a smile like this? With dimples and everything? You could scream with frustration. Why the fuck is this handsome man working for the FBI when he could be a fucking model instead?

When he kisses you, all of your previous thoughts are obliterated. The way his tongue feels against yours, hot and wet and /rough/ as it fits into your mouth, is the only thing that matters. Nothing else is of consequence except the way he responds to you, and how you respond in kind. He pulls away with a nip at your bottom lip that makes your whole body pulse.

It’s complete bullshit what he looks like with his already full lips flushed and shiny from kissing you. That look again, the one of hunger; he’s almost hard to look at. It’s even harder to be looked at like that. You can’t imagine what you must look to him, rumpled and lumpy, skin dry from a night in a strange bed. Suddenly, you can feel yourself coming down from the high of being wanted.

“What?” he teases. Those fucking dimples again. “Kiss not up to your standards?”

“No, it was—” Revelatory? Mind melting? “It was good, I promise.”

The dimples fall away. “Then why do you look … uncomfortable?”

“I’m not uncomfortable. I’m just …”

You’re not even sure what to say. This is just a lot. This is all very out of your comfort zone, even though every cell pulsing with hormones is telling you this is the best thing that’s happened to you in months. “This is a lot. I don’t normally do shit like this.”

He’s stopped rutting his hips into yours, but he’s still holding your hand, still holding himself above you, even as he lets the firmness of his abdomen settle into the softness of yours. He’s still hard underneath his suit slacks but he’s acting as if he’s not. His eyes won’t leave your face; you can’t look away, even though you want to.

“Do you want to stop?” Namjoon’s voice is quiet and kind, his words carefully chosen so as to not sway your decision. “It’s okay to want to stop. We don’t have to do anything if you’ve changed your mind.”

It’s hard to cover your face with embarrassment when he’s still holding one of your hands. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

“I’m sorry. I’ve fucked the moment up, haven’t I?”

“There’s nothing to fuck up. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what? You’re really hot and this is convenient and—”

“You’re hot.”

You scoff. “Not as hot as you.”

“I disagree.”

You feel like you’re short-circuiting. “Did you not hear them calling you a daddy last night?”

“Do you not see you in this dress?” Namjoon sputters. His thumb is rubbing into the skin on the back of your hand gently, but he says nothing else.

“I’m wearing tights,” you say, as if that’s supposed to convince him of something. “Not really hot girl shit or whatever.”

“I’m sure you have your reasons,” he shrugs. “The goth girl thing kind of does it for me, I guess.”

“I’m not goth. I just like wearing black.”

“And it looks great on you.”

“You’re really talkative in the morning, you know that?”

“When you wake up with a throbbing erection it kind of kicks you into gear, babe.”

He doesn’t register the pet name for a moment, but then he blanches. “Sorry, didn’t mean to be so …”

“Familiar?”

“Yeah. That’s the second time I’ve done that.”

“Third, not that I’m counting. Is it weird that I kind of like it?”

Namjoon thinks for a moment before shrugging lightly. “I kind of like it too. I like using it. It’s been a while.”

“Same.”

“And, I don’t know, it feels natural calling you that.”

“It feels natural being called that. It sounds good in your voice.”

“Are you saying you like my voice?”

“Maybe.” You can feel yourself heating up again with his teasing.

“And why’s that, baby?”

Oh, he is definitely teasing you. Damn it, he’s hardening up again, you can feel it. The teasing works both ways and you hate how thrilling it feels.

He takes your beat of silence as hesitation. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Still want to forget everything for a bit?”

“Yeah. We both should, just for a little while.”

He begins to flex his hips into yours lightly, making your legs spread further open.

“What do you like?” he asks suddenly.

“I’m not really picky. I like talking, I don’t mind it little rough, don’t love a ton of eye contact. Simple stuff.”

“Good thing I’m a simple man, then. How do we feel about these tights?” He’s fully hard again, his face beginning to look a little flushed. You’re blown away by how his rumpled white shirt stretches across his arms and chest, rippling beneath his empty shoulder holster.

“I’m tired of wearing them? Why?”

“Kind of want to rip them off you with my teeth.”

He says it so casually, and yet your entire body throbs underneath his, pulsing with want.

“Fuck, do it.”

He drops his face to yours to steal a wet kiss, nipping at your lip again, harder this time. You gasp as he pulls away, the feeling of his teeth startling you in the best way. His hands start moving down your body, brushing over every dip and swell to start pushing your dress up. Your own cuffed hand helps, pulling it as he pushes, and suddenly, you’re bared to him.

You’re a little too riled up to feel self conscious, but you can feel the way the elastic waistband is cutting into your middle. If you weren’t so hot and needy, you might feel kind of gross about it. If Namjoon notices or cares, his eyes betray nothing. Instead, he’s looking at you with such intensity that you’re not even sure how you’re still in one piece. All you want to do is fall apart for him.

He looks like he wants to rip you apart and not the tights. After a moment, however, he abruptly grabs the shitty spandex-nylon blend at your belly and pulls /hard/ with both hands. He tears them right at the center seam with massively arousing ease. With a few more tugs, he’s pulled the two legs apart, separating the fabric so he has access to your center.

The sound of the rip will be seared into your mind for weeks after.

His voice is dark, husky, low with want. “You should buy better tights. These were too easy to ruin.”

“Thought you said you were going to use your teeth—”

You don’t get to finish the sentence before he’s lowering his head to nip gently at the soft expanse of your stomach, looking you straight in the eye as he goes. You look away; it feels too intense as he trails nips and kisses down to your core. He’s gentle with the skin, as if he knows that the stretch marks need to be handled with care. Using his teeth like that just heightens every touch so much more. You find yourself gasping as you clench around nothing. He smiles to himself as he pulls away.

He’s straightens up and sits back on his heels, his cuffed hand still holding yours. Your breath hitches as he bends over and takes the torn edge of hosiery in his teeth. The way his lips brush against the sensitive skin of your upper thigh sends a tremor through your body; it runs so deep that your vision swims. His hands brush against your flesh, holding your leg straight as he begins to pull the hosiery up and away, first over your thigh, and then over your calf, using nothing but his teeth.

Are you supposed to be breathing right now?

Once he’s removed the ruined tights from one leg, he moves to the other. Instead of taking the ripped edge in his teeth, he nips and sucks at your flesh we he reveals it. His fingertips skate up your skin, over every soft expanse and rough patch he finds, each inch he reveals deserving of the same caress as the last. His lips are plush against your inner thigh, but his gaze is hard when he looks at you.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah, have you been …” You’re not sure how to ask what you know you need to ask.

“Tested since my last sexual encounter?” Namjoon’s tone is almost business-like, and it makes you shy.

“Yeah, that.”

“Yeah. All clear. You?”

“Yes, and I’ve got an IUD.”

“Great, going to take these off then.”

He leans forward and hooks his fingers over the waistband of your underwear, pulling it the rest of the way down your legs with his right hand. He tosses it over his shoulder before leaning forward to kiss you.

Fuck, he’s an unreal kisser. It’d be annoying were it not so overwhelming. Every time your mouth moves, he reacts, but it’s such a close reaction that it almost feels like a dance instead; you’re just not sure who’s leading and who’s following. Your heart has begun to race anew and you’re not sure if it’s from his lips or the nerves. And you mean that in the very best way possible.

For a moment, you think this is it. He’ll fuck you and it’ll feel good, but it won’t be anything more than that. Not for you, at least. When Namjoon’s lips slip away and start kissing down your jaw to your neck, and then your collar bone, and then straight back down to the exposed skin of your abdomen, you realize he’s got other plans.

“Namjoon, you don’t—”

“Do you want this?” he asks, his mouth moving against your flesh. You don’t dare look down at him; his tone is low and raspy enough that you know his gaze will be devastating.

His kisses have been so skilled that you can’t help but wonder what else his mouth can do. “I do.”

“Then relax, sweetheart.”

He tugs lightly on your hips as he wraps his arms around your legs, dragging the hand still attached to his to rest on your mound; your own hand rests close by. The motion brings his lips to your heat. Immediately, his tongue finds your center, sucking and laving at it until you can’t fight the moan building in your lungs. Namjoon takes the hint. His hold on you with his arms tightens, his fingertips dimpling into your sumptuous flesh.

“Be loud for me, let me hear what you like.”

His tongue fits perfectly between your folds, dragging against your clit with just the right amount of pressure, just enough so it feels like it’s almost too much. Soon, he’s pressing his face into you with a groan.

“You’re so wet for me, baby.”

He sucks suddenly, centered right over your clit. It toes that delicate line between pain and pleasure, quickly fading into unquestionable delight as he presses into you with the flat of his tongue. Wow. Just—

“F-fuck,” you breathe, the words breaking apart into pants as they come from your lungs. Waves on a shore. Lightning hitting some tall, vulnerable thing. Time and the inevitable.

The sounds of him sucking at you, running his tongue through your hot flesh, border on profane. It’s as if he’s bent on tempting every ounce of blood he can to drift to your cunt with just the friction of his face against it. With it, he also pulls cries of ecstasy from you. You can’t even try to keep quiet, not with the way he’d lavishing attention on you.

You risk a glance down between your legs, over the soft rises of your breasts and belly; what you see has you tightening your core around nothing. His eyes are closed, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration, his head at the slightest angle as he works. You’d not noticed how thick his hair is before, and it’s taking everything you have not to run your fingers through it and pull.

Without warning, he looks up at you, his eyes hooded and dark with lust. He groans when your eyes meet. The sensation has you seeing stars as your body surges with arousal. He pulls away from your cunt with a smack, his eyes falling back down to his work, and you let your head fall back with an airy whine.

That’s when you feel the press of his fingers pushing inside you. Two perhaps, long and lithe and eager while still being gentle as they start to drag against your hot walls. You feel him suck at your clit once again before swearing.

“Fucking tight, baby. So fucking tight and pretty.”

The profanity makes you squeeze around his fingers. You’ve never had an orgasm build up like this before. The pressure is swiftly welling within you as you writhe beneath his tongue.

“I’m close,” you whimper. “Please—I’m so close.”

Namjoon hums and adjusts the way he’s thrusting his fingers into you, trying to stroke the soft part of your front wall while he laves at your clit; he finds it with little trouble. It won’t be long now. Every muscle in your body is pulled taut, ready to be plucked and sing. And yet, not a single sound escapes your lips as you focus on which brick to pull from the wall to bring it all crashing down.

It could be seconds, it could be minutes, and then none of it matters anyway because suddenly your heart is pulsing in rhythm with your cunt as it squeezes around his fingers. You cry out with a high, fractured moan. The steady contraction practically squeezes his fingers out, and yet he seems reluctant to pull away, softly licking you through the high.

“So pretty for me, such a good girl for me,” he murmurs into your flesh. It almost seems like he's reveling in the high as much as you are.

It takes you gently tugging at his hair to get him to stop. You can’t even speak; you’re a fucking mess. He plants a kiss on the inside of your thigh as you shiver, still feeling the reverberations of your orgasm.

His cuffed hand reaches for yours and gives it a squeeze as he repositions to a squat between your thighs. His shirt is wrinkled over his heaving chest, the shoulder holster still firmly holding to his torso. The thin wool of his trousers is doing nothing to hide the strain of the erection beneath. Your eyes trail up his body to his face.

He looks fucking wrecked. His brow is furrowed, and the bottom half of his face is wet and shiny with you. His eyes are so intense, you can almost feel them running touches up and down your form like he might use his fingers or tongue. His tongue darts out to lick his lips, and you feel yourself squeeze around nothing, even as you tremble beneath his gaze.

His hand drops yours as he tries to lean over to his nightstand without tugging too much on you. You hear the clatter of a drawer and the soft rustles of plastic, and suddenly he’s back in view.

“I know you said you’ve got an IUD, but—” He stops for a moment, squinting to read the expiration date on the condom wrapper. “But I don’t want to assume and I figure it’s easier clean up …”

You’re trying not to think about the tiny XL that flashes from the foil in the low light. He looks big, trapped behind his pants as he is, but he can’t actually be big enough to need the next size up for a condom, right?

“You okay?” he suddenly asks. His voice is still low, but his eyes are more clear. His concern has shaken away some of the intensity. “We can stop if this is too much.”

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, but you don’t miss the double meaning of his statement. “XL, huh?”

Namjoon smiles almost shyly. “They’re more comfortable, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You’re not sure what you’re asking either, but you reach up to help him start undoing his belt. You need to know what you’ve gotten yourself into.

Once he’s pushed his clothing down, you’re less concerned for your bodily health, and more intimidated about the fact that he’s large at all. Largest you’ve ever personally encountered, but it’s not like you’ve left a long string of lovers in your wake. It’s a small sample size of people, and Namjoon’s just brought the average size up a little more than expected.

His breath hitches as his own fingers wrap around his length. You watch, tantalized, as he strokes himself a few times, groaning softly under his breath. Carefully, he rips open the foil and rolls the condom on. You watch this too, wondering what it’s going to be like to feel this cock push inside you.

Suddenly, Namjoon’s kissing you hungrily, pressing you back into the mattress. You can taste yourself on his skin, and it makes you sigh into his mouth. Your cuffed hand is holding his, stretched above and over your head so that he can lean on his elbow comfortably. He ruts his hips into your core, just enough to keep the excitement up. He shifts a little, and you feel his fingers gently, but blindly, running through your folds, trying to press inside you once more.

“If you’re trying to prep me, that’s fine, but I’m not that delicate,” you say. The words sound soft and airy as he begins to thrust gently. “I own several dildos, you’re not that big.”

Alright, fine, that’s more of a bluff. But still, you can take it. Penetration is ninety percent confidence, and you’re confident you can take his definitely larger than average cock. Hopefully.

His lip quirks, but he reaches down to guide himself into you anyway. As he does, you realize what the other ten percent of penetration is: just fucking taking it.

For a moment, it’s like the breath has been sucked out of your lungs. The condom was a good idea; the glide of the lubricant makes it that much easier for him to fit himself into you, however tightly. He’s careful with you, using a few small yet incendiary thrusts to slowly get you used to the adjustment. It’s almost like he’s holding his breath as he presses in. When he’s fully seated, he lets himself groan sinfully into your neck.

“Fuck.”

“God, y-you’re—”

Abruptly, the bedroom door slams open, and whoever’s invading the quiet, heated space is shouting with stilted exhuberance.

“YESSSSSS sEcKsY nAeMcHyOoNNN. You’re finally getting laid, my guy!”

You can’t see whoever’s burst through the door; Namjoon has flattened himself against you and has covered your head with his arms and torso as best he can. His body is still hot against yours, his breath still warm against your neck, his cock still rock hard inside you, but the moment lasts for hardly an instant before he’s lifting his head and shouting:

“KOOK, GET THE FUCK OUT.”

“Alright, damn, fuck me I guess. Or rather, fuck y’all? Joon, my bro, those squats at the gym are working, love to see it.”

“GET OUT, YOU FUCKING—”

“I’m going, I’m going, calm your big muscle boy tits, I’m going.”

You hear the door slam, and Namjoon relaxes visibly, his head dipping into the crook of your neck with a sigh. Your left arm is still stretched above your head, holding his hand, but your right is unoccupied. You start gently running your fingertips over the back of his neck. He hums in approval before lifting his head to give you a quick kiss.

It’s almost more of a peck, really, but the gesture feels odd nonetheless. It seems intimate, even as you feel his dick already starting to soften inside of you. The moment’s passed, and yet, the intimacy hasn’t. It’s confusing; this wasn’t supposed to be about feelings or involve them. This wasn’t supposed to be that kind of intimate; it was supposed to be an act of convenience, and nothing more.

And yet, you still feel drawn to him, just as you’d been drawn to him at the party last night. You hate to admit it, but there’s a chance that the sex, albeit partially unsuccessful, has just heightened that initial attraction. It’s strong enough that you can’t ignore it. The phenomenal head hasn’t helped you keep your wits clear either.

Namjoon rolls off you gently, trying not to twist your arm or his in the process. With one hand he helps you pull your dress hem down, his knuckles brushing against your skin. His eyes, so big and brown to begin with, still have an edge to their gaze as he watches your body become hidden to him again.

The two of you rise from the bed, one after the other, and you follow closely as shuffles his pants and boxer briefs back up his thick thighs, taking off the condom as he goes. Your hand brushes over the fabric as he zips the fly and fastens the button.

“Everything good?” he asks quietly. It’s not cold, or ill-intentioned even, but you still want more from the question than he is likely offering. It’s time to steel yourself, you suppose; to wean yourself off the feeling of his flesh pressing into yours, however brief the experience may have been.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you reply softly. You’ve not even registered the embarrassment of being interrupted. You’re still working through the fact that you want to see this man again and you don’t know if he’ll want anything to do with you once the cuffs are gone.

You want to ask him if he’s okay, where his head is at … but none of it seems like the right thing to say right now.

“Are you—” It suddenly hits you that you really really need to pee, and you’re sure Namjoon does as well.

“Am I …?”

Fuck, he’s smiling at you again. That fucking dimple is just right there. It’s not appropriate to kiss him right now, is it?

“Are you alright? Like is everything going to be alright right with your … nuts?” Better to start making this weird than let it get serious.

“My … nuts?”

“Excuse me, I’ll use more clinical language. Will your testicles be alright?”

Namjoon cringes, and then laughs when he sees the wide grin on your face. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Blue balls aren’t a thing. And for all you know, I’m into edging.”

The accompanying eyebrow wiggle at his own joke makes you full-on laugh, but it doesn’t erase the chemically-fed yearning settling into your abdomen. No matter. This will all be over soon.

&&&

“I still can’t believe the key was in your fucking belt the eNTIRE TIME.”

“Kook, don’t you have a hangover you’re late for?”

“Woke up still drunk, baybieeeee. I’m good for another hour or so before I start getting dragged to the underworld. I’m gonna need an IV drip and I trust you’ll provide.”

“So I’ve got an hour until you leave me alone. Is that what you’re saying?”

“What, gotta wait for me to pass out before you go tug one out in the shower? That’s literally never stopped you before, you coward. I can hear you moaning every morning through my bedroom wall.”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel the tension headache coming on already, the weight of the night sagging heavily against his skull. Jungkook banging shit around as he sets about making the customary Saturday morning pot of coffee is not helping.

He feels terrible in other ways too.

Jungkook hadn’t been lying when he’d tossed the handcuff case to him; there were no keys to be found inside. Kook had thought it was normal because of the “obvious security issues.” He thought Namjoon kept the key on his person and would just take them off after leaving. The asshole had thought nothing of the prank, but thought it was hilarious that his roommate had forgotten he had the key on him the whole time.

You’d teased him incessantly after he’d realized the key was in a hidden pocket inside of his belt, but there was something else beneath the amusement as well. You looked put out somehow, and it’s bothered him since you left.

Did you think he’d lied about not knowing where the keys were?

Namjoon doesn’t have the opportunity to linger on the question, because Jungkook is sliding into the seat next to him at the kitchen table. The hangover smell is coming off of him in waves, and Namjoon recoils.

“You smell disgusting.”

“Well, you smell like sex so—”

“Two very different smells.”

“Yes. Yours is objectively better, but like, also still kind of gross. Like dude what’s that shit on your—”

“You literally got a lap dance from a stranger last night.”

“Hey! Mr. Grumpy-gills! We do not shame sex workers in this house!”

“I’m not shaming anyone, asshole. You’re shaming me while I’m stating a fact. You, on the other hand, smell like two or three sweaty humans and a wet dog went for a swim in a liquor cabinet.”

“Well, you’re not wrong. Tae’s dog was very needy last night. Tell you what, though, Yoongi’s a great kisser.”

Namjoon thinks about how your lips felt against his, how they felt between his teeth, against his neck. “That’s great, Jungkook. Good for you.”

“Was Y/N a good kisser?”

Yes. “That’s not any of your business.” For fuck’s sake, why hasn’t this asshole passed out yet?

“I made out with a hot guy who happens to be a stripper last night and told you as much but you won’t tell me anything about your escapades?”

“Walking in us wasn’t enough?”

“NO. No, it was not! All I got to see was your ass. Which! Again! Those squats are doing wonders, and you should be proud of your hunky physique.”

Namjoon’s face is in his hands now. He can’t even suppress the annoyed groan.

“What?? I’m glad it’s getting some use. Fucking finally.”

“Jungkook, is the coffee ready?”

“Just about. So was she a good kisser? What did she feel like around your monster dong? Was she a good cuddler? I know how you value your post-fuck cuddling, and I want that to be something your romantic partner appreciates as well.”

The image of you, spread out beneath him, looking fucked out from the orgasm he’d just pulled from you, flashes before his eyes. Your lips are parted, your eyes glassy. Your dress is rumpled, pulled up past your hips. And then there was the way you’d looked at him when he’d finally revealed his own flesh. He can feel the blood stirring in his abdomen and trying to head south just thinking about it.

“Joon, you good?”

Namjoon’s focus snaps back to the table in front of him, where Jungkook’s set a mug of coffee in front of him. The steam wafts up in lazy tendrils, and for a moment, he’s distracted again.

“Alright, so whatever you managed to do before I ‘interrupted’ was good, apparently, because that’s the only legitimate reason for you to be ignoring my questions right now.”

Namjoon takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Yeah, she was great. It was all really great.” More than great, really, but he’s not sure how to actually say it. All he can see in his mind’s eye is you.

“Sooooooo, hope I’m not too late on this. Did you get her number?”

Namjoon’s blood runs cold.

Fuck.

“Yeah okay, so hold that thought, coffee smell’s making me wanna vom, brb.”

He hears his roommate scramble away, but only vaguely. His ears are ringing with his own stupidity. Underneath it all, he can still hear your sighs, and your soft words, and even the less soft ones from you’d said at the party.

It would be like this, wouldn’t it? It would be you that he missed out on a second chance with.

Perfect. This is just … perfect.

Thank you for reading! Drop me an ask and tell me what you think. Find me in various places at my carrd :)

©miscelunaaa 2022. My work is only found on this blog and under my ao3 pseud. Do not, under any circumstances, copy or repost my work.Thank you.

posted: 6.2.2022

[dresshistorynerd]

Opinions in hemp cloth/fabric? I saw one of your post talking about polyster vs cotton/wool/linen

Hi! Thank you for the question! When I was writing that post/addition, I actually forgot the existence of hemp (not that it's among the most important natural fabrics today (sadly)). And when I went to check some sources to make sure I didn't get things wrong, I learned that cotton also gets stronger when wet, which I had previously learned the other way around. (I had gotten it wrong in that post too.)

Hemp is an amazing material. It's very similar to linen in it's properties, in some regards even better. Like linen it's extremely breathable, so great for hot weather, and antibacterial, so it doesn't smell easily and when against skin, keeps it cleaner too. It has even better water absorption abilities than linen, which is why it doesn't feel wet even when it has absorbed a good amount of sweat or water in general. Like linen (and apparently cotton) it gets stronger when wet too, which makes washing and sanitizing it without damaging it easy. It's also even before getting wet super strong, the strongest plant fiber there is. It even has one ability linen doesn't have (nor most plant fibers) it's UV resistant, adding to it's great abilities for summer use.

One thing I didn't mention in that post about linen, which makes it still very relevant, is that growing linen is so much more ecological than growing cotton, which requires a ton of fresh water. Flax (the plant linen is made of) grows very easily in fairly harsh conditions and doesn't need fertilizers, which are often damaging to the ecosystem. However, hemp does the same and better. It's very resistant to pests, so doesn't need extra pestilence that could have adverse effects to the ecosystem, and unlike most other monocultural farmland, it even enriches the earth, keeping the earth resistant against erosion.

All of these properties are why it was used for sails and ropes for millennia. Its very long and strong fibers allow it to be made into very thick canvas excellent for sails. Hemp canvas was also used for stiff interlining. But it got me thinking, why isn't hemp often talked about in clothing history (except in the fact that it was the first plant fiber to be woven into fabric)? It has such obviously excellent properties, which surely would have been attractive to pre-industrial people with limited resources. After looking around I found couple of explanations.

Hemp was indeed used widely for clothes, especially in rural setting. Since it became the first plant fabric in central Asia, it was the primary fabric for clothing in China till the introduction of cotton around a millennium ago. It was used in Europe too since the Goths introduced it in antiquity. However in historical texts (at least in 16th-18th century) hemp cloth is also often referred to as linen and it can be hard to distinguish if the fabric written about was actually made from hemp or flax, since they did make fairly similar cloth. There was a limiting factor too for more widespread use of hemp, since it's processing into fabric was labour intensive, which got better in Industrial Era, when some of the most labor intensive parts were able to be mechanized. It was though very easy and cheap to grow, and needed especially little attention in summer, when farmers had most work. Because of it's enriching properties it also could be grown in the same plot year after year. For these reasons it was often grown in small quantities within small-scale farming even when large scale farming was becoming more common. It's perhaps where the rural association came from, as it was likely grown for personal household textiles and not for selling.

Though there was of course larger scale farming of it and records of selling it by merchants after feudalism started fading, even if the labour intensive processing made it less profitable. Apparently one of the most popular usages for hemp in clothing was men's shirts, for upper and lower classes. Sailors also often wore hemp clothing as it was so excellent and durable in all the conditions that would come across at sea. Hemp also was not as fine as linen, and while very fine hemp was soft and as linen softens in use and with every wash, it still wasn't quite as soft and fine as linen could be. So especially upper classes, who wouldn't need the maximum practicality and durability, would opt into linen, which was still very practical and durable, but also a bit more comfortable against skin.

At the time, when labour was plentiful and relatively cheap compared to land, hemp was still profitable. Entering the Industrial Era this started to change as industrial production requiring less human labour was much cheaper and therefore left more profit margin, so the capitalists now controlling production would greatly favor materials that could be produced industrially. While the processing of hemp became less labour intensive with mechanization, it was still much more labour intensive than cotton for example, which was the first thing that was industrialized. Hemp production was still fairly wide through 19th century and to early 20th century, even if declining in it's share of the clothing production like all the rest of the natural fabrics (except cotton).

But then the war on drugs happened. Now the hemp typically used for clothing is not exactly the same used for weed (there's different strains and then male and female and it seems complicated and I don't know that much about plants), what I read it doesn't have at least very strong psychoactive qualities unlike those used specifically for weed (though there was some overlap). Of course that didn't stop growing hemp being banned very widely, leading the hemp fabric production to plummet in the latter half of 1900s. Growing hemp has become easier now, but the prohibition still create hurdles for farmers. Which sucks a lot because it's such an amazing material and with modern mechanized processing it's cheap to make (and can be made to be really soft) on top of being excellent quality and gentle to environment.

So I guess my opinion is hemp is great we should make more of it instead of cotton and especially synthetic fibers and legalize weed.

[the-himawari]

A3! Yukishiro Azuma - Translation [SR] Festival of Blooming (2/2)

*Please read disclaimer on blog

---

Azuma: How do I look?

Guy: It is a tad large, but it suits you well.

Azuma: Fufu. I’m glad.

Guy: However, it does feel a little strange letting someone else wear your own clothes.

Azuma: Is it unpleasant?

Guy: That is not what I meant. I do not have much experience with this sort of thing, so it feels refreshing. And in any case, this may pose as a good opportunity to view myself objectively.

Azuma: Alright, I’ll have to do my best in my skit so you’ll think of it as an even better opportunity.

Guy: Great. I am looking forward to it.

Azuma: Okay, I’m going to start now.

*sets box down*

Azuma: “…It appears Mika sent various items again this time.”

Guy: (He is holding a cardboard box… Is this me when I receive a care package from Zafra?)

Azuma: “Is this the newly released spice? There’s new fabric in here too…”

Guy: (Do I have such an delighted-looking face when I examine the packages?)

Azuma: “I must convey my gratitude to Mika.” “…Mika? Yes, the care package arrived safely. Thank you.” “It is very helpful that you always casually include items that the other members will enjoy in addition to what we requested.”

Guy: (I never realized I talk to Mika with such a calm tone.)

Azuma: “…Indeed. I will be in touch again.” So, what did you think? I couldn’t hold the conversation with Mika in Zafran, so listened to how you talked earlier and used that as reference.

Guy: Hmph… I had no idea I had that sort of countenance when I contact Mika when the care packages arrive. Perhaps I look forward to the care packages more than I thought I did.

Azuma: Fufu. I think so too. You when you’re working at the bar, when you accompany me for a drink at home, and when you make snacks for us… There were so many sides of you that I knew, so I had a hard time settling on one. However, the Guy I played just now is my particular favourite. I also like the Guy who sees items from Zafra and thinks of them, and who is adored by everybody back home.

Guy: Thank you, Yukishiro. I was able to realize once again how important the place and people of Zafra are to me.

Azuma: You’re very welcome.

Guy: By the way, we must take a polaroid picture, correct?

Azuma: Oh, yes. Ah, would you mind if I take it together with this Guy Jr.?

Guy: Yes, not a problem. I am sure Mika will be happy to see it as well.

Azuma: Please go ahead then.

*click*

Azuma: Fufu. How cute.

Guy: Mika requested that I give Guy Jr. a chance to enjoy Japan to the fullest before returning him to Zafra. This will also serve as a memory for him.

Azuma: Fufu. I see. We’ll have to make even more memories for him, hm?

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